


All Again For You

by PlayingChello



Series: Roleplays with Jamie [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, Fix-It, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Subdrop, barely, but it is there, completely unrealistic timeframe for a divorce?, i have no idea tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 64,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayingChello/pseuds/PlayingChello
Summary: His eyes are still too heavy to keep open for more than a moment before they slide shut once more, but Eddie hears the sound of a voice near him and can feel the soft pressure of something against his hand.He knows that voice.Alternative Title: Coming Home, Coming Out, and Coming Twice
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Roleplays with Jamie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618186
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	1. Confessions Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo Jamie and I finished this a while ago but it's taking me 80 billion years to edit so I figured I'll release it in chapters so I can at least get some of it posted. This was our first Reddie RP and we kinda went... really hard. Anyway, this chapter is just the hospital after the events of canon. Everyone is alive and 'well.' I can't think of anything else to say about it, uh, tags will update as we go and the rating is gonna go up for the last chapter huehue.
> 
> [Jamie](https://jlmdemon.tumblr.com/) wrote Richie, I wrote Eddie.

Pain.

Everything hurts.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Breathing hurts, but at least he is breathing. One thing on the mental checklist. But his brain doesn’t work enough to go through anything else to work out what the hell is wrong with him. He remembers his friends. He remembers It. He remembers… Richie. And the deadlights. He remembers being so goddamn _angry_.

Eddie groans as he attempts to move. Everything _hurts_. He turns his head and tries his best to open his eyes, but they’re so heavy and everything is blurry and he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on and he can’t remember how he got here and what if he’s just lying along at the bottom of that stupid well, all alone, because his friends forgot about him and what if…

He should try opening his eyes again.

\--

Five days. It has been five full days since they had dragged a barely breathing Eddie out of Neibolt. Since Richie had pressed down with shaking hands to stop the bleeding as Eddie choked out “Just look at me, baby, it’s okay.’’ Even as he had been bleeding out, he had been trying to take care of Richie. Had cradled his face until he didn’t have the strength to hold his arms up anymore and Richie had sobbed over him. He still remembered the EMTs saying only one could fit into the ambulance with him, remembered stepping forward without waiting for the others to weigh in and how they had let him without argument. And he hadn’t bothered to wonder if Eddie realized he had called him ‘baby’ or not.

He had sat in that god forsaken waiting room for hours. The others taking turns leaving to clean up because they wouldn’t leave him alone. After nearly three days - Eddie was out of surgery but doctors had said he still might not make it - they finally made Richie go take a shower. He didn’t remember much about it, really. Remembered watching Eddie’s blood swirl down the drain and breaking down. He hadn’t done a whole lot, really, aside from take that shower. He had moved from the waiting room to Eddie’s room, and he ate when the others forced him to. But mostly, he just sat and held on too tightly to Eddie’s ruined sweater.

When Eddie had first left surgery and the doctors had first announced it was a miracle he was still alive, but they still needed another miracle for him to stay that way, everyone had turned to him. And Richie had stared at nothing for a long moment before letting out another sob. “I love him,” he had ended up saying, and the answering silence told him they had all known for a very long time.

Richie has been aggressively tuned into Eddie for the past five days is the point. So when Eddie groans, shifting just barely, Richie is the first to notice. He flies out of his seat, going to Eddie’s side and taking his hand. “Eddie?” he says, voice shaking harshly. Hoarse from misuse. Eddie is waking up, he is making noise and his vitals have been stable for the past twenty-six hours - Richie knows, he has been keeping track - and this is good. “Eds, you’re alright it’s okay. I’ve got you, you’re okay.” His voice keeps cracking as he speaks, shaky and uneven and so fucking scared.

\--

His eyes are still too heavy to keep open for more than a moment before they slide shut once more, but Eddie hears the sound of a voice near him and can feel the soft pressure of something against his hand.

He knows that voice.

But it’s scared, trembling, cracking. So unlike what Eddie remembers it sounding like. So contrary to the mouthy, brash way it has always sounded in their youth and in the days since their reunion. It hurts to hear it sound like that, but at least he can hear it, at least he made it out. Eddie hopes everyone else did, too. Hopes this means it’s over.

“Don’t…” he starts, voice sounding like metal grating against metal. He hadn’t realised just how dry his throat felt until that moment. He really needs a drink. “Don’t call…” swallow, “me… that.” He tries again to open his eyes, tries to bring his friend into focus. He barely manages to catch a glimpse before they fall closed once more. “Water…” he pleads, desperately thirsty but unable to do anything about it himself.

\--

Richie lets out a hoarse bark of laughter that is more shock than anything else. The first fucking thing out of Eddie’s mouth is ‘don’t call me that.’ He can’t believe it. Or maybe he can, considering Eddie is nothing if not consistent. He licks at his lips, nodding. Water, he can do that. He has a fresh bottle, in fact. Bev had forced it into his hands just minutes ago. He realizes, as he tries to get the cap off, that his hands are shaking and it takes another moment to realize he’s having such a hard time seeing because he’s crying.

He shifts closer, gently bumping the mouth of the bottle against Eddie’s bottom lip. “Here, nice and cold,” he says. Eddie is awake. Talking. That stupid fucking clown had managed to mostly miss his organs, his spine. A lot of internal damage, of course. And his organs had been sliced at but nowhere near as badly as it had looked. Of course, it is still awful. He still had to go through hours of emergency surgery and they hadn’t known if he’d survive this long. But even still, Eddie is awake.

“Fucking hell. Eds, don’t scare me like that,” he chokes out as he carefully helps him drink down a few sips of water. The others are crowded around them, aside from Bill who had rushed to find a doctor or a nurse. But Richie almost doesn’t notice them, too focused on Eddie. On the man he had fallen in love with thirty years ago, before he knew what it meant.

\--

Eddie gratefully sips at the water offered to him. He wants to gulp it all down at once, but only manages a few sips at a time. But it seems that Richie is more than happy to hold the bottle to his lips until he’s had his fill. Until his throat feels a little less dry and he can almost speak without sounding like he has a mouthful of sand.

When he finally stops drinking, he manages to hold his eyes open long enough to see that everyone is there. All his friends are crowded around a tiny bed in what must be a hospital where he lays. Everyone except Bill. He looks around before he has to let his eyelids fall closed once more. Then, after a moment, he forces them open again to look at Richie. “What happened?”

Everything still hurts. And he can’t move much more than turning his head slightly. And he still doesn’t remember anything after Richie got caught in the deadlights. And being angry. And wanting to kill that goddamn clown. And just… Richie. In danger. Needing to do something.

And then nothing.

“You were…”

\--

Richie holds the bottle there as long as Eddie needs him to, going as slowly as necessary. Happy to take all the time in the world because as slow as it is, it means Eddie is _alive_. Eddie is laying there, able to drink. They had saved him. Richie had saved him. And there is no doubt from anyone that Richie had been the one to save him, because he was the one who had refused to leave him behind. Who had heard him croak out ‘Rich?’ as the others were trying to drag him away to safety.

He swallows thickly, offering half a smile as he puts the water down. “You threw a fence post through a weird demon, alien clown thing’s throat like a badass is what you did,” he says, brushing his fingers through Eddie’s hair. His little smile softens, then. “It’s dead. We got out. Had to drag your sorry ass out to the street. How much fuckin’ muscle you got, man, because you are too small to be that heavy.”

It is...weird. Talking like that when Eddie is half dead in a hospital bed but there are too many people around to be more genuine. Too much going on to break down and admit to everything. Too much fear and anxiety and _relief_. He wants to. So badly, he wants to tell Eddie he loves him and is so glad he’s alive and that he hates that he’s married. But he can’t make the words come out. For perhaps the first time in his life, he is unable to speak.

\--

Fence post.

_”It kills monsters.” “It does?” “Yeah, if you believe it does.”_

Beverly. She’s in the room. She told him that, gave him rusted tetanus on a stick. And it… worked? Richie says… Wait. Did Richie just call him a badass? He’s pretty sure that’s never happened before. There’s so much… so much going on so much to say and so much to hear and so much to remember but it’s all too much. There’s too much.

And he knows Richie is holding something back, knows there’s more to be said. He knows him too well, knows the joke about him being heavy is a deflection. And he lets it be, feeds into it. “Probably from all the fucking your mom,” he spits out, having to take a few deep breaths after. Just saying the words puts him out of breath.

“I’m really... really tired guys.” He coughs and groans from how much it hurts to do something so simple. “I’m glad it’s over.” _I’m glad we’re all still here to celebrate._

\--

Richie shakes his head, swallowing thickly as he lets out a sharp, hoarse noise that might have been a laugh. He wraps up Eddie’s hand in both of his, lifting it up as he presses his lips to his knuckles. Kissing his knuckles sweetly, soft and gentle and so painfully intimate. It makes his chest tighten up and butterflies explode in his stomach like he was thirteen sitting in a hammock with him again. Like he was fifteen trying to teach Eddie how to dance because he had a date to homecoming. Seventeen and leaned too close to shotgun a hit of his weed, thinking for the briefest of moments that he might have the courage to kiss him.

Like he’s in love.

“Then rest, dumbass.” He chokes out, lips still pressed to his knuckles. He can deal with the emotional fall out of it later. He can claim it was just worry for his best friend. But he knows it isn’t, the others know it isn’t. He just isn’t sure Eddie knows it isn’t. Even if he does, though, he has a wife back home. Richie doesn’t want to believe Eddie actually loves her, but that doesn’t negate the fact that Eddie is married. He has someone waiting for him and Richie wants to beg him to stay, anyway.

“I’ll be right here.”

\--

Eddie’s eyes slide shut while most of the Losers filter out of the room. Most, but not all. Because Richie, true to his word, stays right there. Right by his side. He’s still holding onto his hand, mouth pressed against it with something far softer that can realistically be written off as a friendly concern, but Eddie tries anyway. Because there’s no way. No way Richie fucking Tozier feels even slightly more than friendly toward sickly, weak Eddie Kaspbrak.

When the room is clear of everyone, leaving Eddie on the bed, breathing in time with the soft beeping of the instruments hooked into him one way or another, and Richie sitting in the chair next to him, Eddie turns to his friend. “What the fuck, am I right?” He smiles halfheartedly, “I hope they’ve got me on antibiotics. I probably have some kind of staph infection from that fucking sewer.”

He’s not making any sense. He knows he isn’t. But he’s far too distracted by Richie sitting like that, holding his hand. Distracted by how _good_ he looks despite looking like Hell. “Is this real?”

\--

Richie offers a little smile at Eddie, still sweetly holding his hand. Still with his lips pressed against his knuckles like he has the right to do it. “Yeah, course it’s real, Spaghed,” he says, voice too quiet and too soft. Fuck. The way Eddie looks at him, holds onto his hand. And all Richie can think is that Eddie is married. He has a wife who probably misses him and...And Richie feels so guilty that he still wants so badly to take what he wants.

He swallows thickly, reaching one of his hands to brush his knuckles over Eddie’s cheek. Fingers moving up to brush through his hair. He lets out a shaky breath. “Thought you were dead, man. Really scared the fuck out of me.” He chokes out. Staring at Eddie, and he realizes when he feels wet drops on the hand still holding Eddie’s that he’s crying.

He swears, ducking his head to wipe the tears away. Eddie probably knows, if he’s being honest. After all, that closet bullshit hadn’t been subtle. It had been blatant, a clear threat from that stupid clown saying he was going to out him. And Eddie isn’t stupid. But then again, he may be smart but he’s also a little oblivious. So perhaps he doesn’t realize. Either way, Richie doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to bring it up because he knows it’s pointless. So he wipes the tears away and tries to pretend they had never been there.

\--

Real.

This is real. Richie says so. And Eddie has always been able to trust Richie. No matter what. Even if they’re joking around and he’s being a dick and annoying the fuck out of him, Eddie could always trust him. This is real. Eddie is here, alive, and so is Richie. And everyone else is alive and… well, as far as he could tell from their brief encounter. It is dead and all that fucked up shit they’ve been seeing and experiencing is over. And this is real.

The nasty pain in his body is real.

He almost doesn’t realise Richie is speaking until he feels the damp drops falling on his hand where Richie is _still holding it_. Eddie isn’t sure how he feels about that. On one hand, it’s the kind of thing he remembers (he _remembers_ ) wishing for throughout his whole childhood. The kind of thing 15 year old Eddie would have hyperventilated over just trying to imagine the implications. But now he’s older. He’s _forty_. And he’s married.

Oh fuck.

Myra.

He had completely forgotten about her. Ever since coming back to Derry it was like she hadn’t existed. Like his life back in New York just faded away and didn’t matter. Not when he was with the Losers. Not when a killer monster clown was on a tirade for revenge from 27 years ago. But now… now it’s over. Richie said so. And that means he has to remember that he’s _married_.

What the fuck.

He really doesn’t want to bring her up. It feels… wrong somehow. Like her name will taint something between he and Richie. But he has to. He has to know. Maybe… He can talk around it, at least for now. “How long have I been out?”

\--

Richie struggles to make the tears stop. He doesn’t want to cry, he had always hated crying. But it had always been easier, around Eddie. He had always let himself be vulnerable around Eddie. When he had hated himself the most, when he was struggling not to grab his pocket knife. He went to Eddie and let himself be weak and Eddie had always had the strength to hold him up. So maybe he doesn’t want to be the weak one, right now. Maybe he wishes he had the strength to hold Eddie up, instead.

He shakes his head, choking on a small sob and struggling to catch a decent breath. He coughs into his hand - the one he had used to touch Eddie’s face - then lets it join his first one in holding Eddie’s hand. “...Five days,” he says, voice cracking harshly. “Do you remember anything?” he adds. And perhaps he is a bit scared of the answer. Scared of knowing Eddie might know he hadn’t left his side in five days. Of Eddie knowing how he held onto his hand, had pressed sweet kisses to his head.

Scared Eddie had heard him repeat ‘I love you’ like a prayer that would save him.

He clears his throat again, wincing at the chummy grossness in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do, how to handle this. What else he should say, what he should do. He ends up just pressing Eddie’s knuckles against his lips again. Eyes clamping shut as he tries to control his breathing.

\--

Five. Days.

Fuck.

Richie seems like he’s falling apart at Eddie’s bedside, like he’s still scared Eddie is going to stop breathing any minute. Like he doesn’t believe his own words about this all being real. It’s sort of terrifying in its own way, to have Richie falling apart like this. Because, of course, Richie isn’t infallible and he gets scared and he has his own problems. But he doesn’t normally get like this. Eddie can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Richie cry like this.

That should probably tell him something.

“Not really. I remember getting really mad, seeing you floating in front of It. And then… nothing after that. I don’t even remember how I got hurt.” He pauses, looking at the top of Richie’s head for a moment. He has an incredible urge to run his fingers through his hair, but he can’t move enough to do so and Richie’s holding onto the hand that is close and he doesn’t want to take that away. “How did I get hurt?”

He’s almost scared to know the answer. Even more worried that trying to tell him might hurt Richie somehow. But he needs to know. He needs to identify what he’s feeling.

\--

Richie should have expected it, he should have expected the question but even still it makes his chest tighten up. He lets out a shaky breath. “You threw the fence post to save me,” he says, voice shaky and a little broken. “And you...you came over to me.” He pauses again, then he holds on too tightly to Eddie’s hand. He remembers reaching for Eddie’s face, lifting up with every intention of kissing him because he was so happy that Eddie was there and that smile was so beautiful and Richie had wanted so badly to kiss him.

And then he felt the blood splatter onto his face, had seen the spike cutting through him. Watching him hit the ground. He lets out a harsh sob, curling in on himself, holding Eddie’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. Resting his forehead down on the bed as more and more broken sobs wrack his body. Because he had almost lost Eddie. Eddie had almost died beside him.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Fuck, Eds, you almost died.” He chokes on his sobs, his body shaking from the force of them. Which is stupid, really. It’s stupid to be this distraught because Eddie is alive. Eddie is there, he is alive and he is going to survive and why is Richie having such a goddamn break down? “Eddie I can’t fucking lose you again.”

\--

Eddie wants to do something. Anything. To make Richie stop sounding so goddamn _sad_. It hurts him. It hurts to hear him sobbing like that, to watch him curl up and become so small. Richie should never be that small, he should stand tall, be as big as all of New York.

“Rich.” Eddie’s voice cracks before he can manage to swallow and continue. “Richie, look at me.” He waits until Richie does as he asks. He squeezes the hand that Richie practically has a death grip on because he wants to wipe away his tears but he can’t pull it out of his hands and take that lifeline away from his friend. “I’m right here. You said it yourself, this is real. I’m right here.”

Usually by now, Eddie would have started panicking, reaching for an inhaler he no longer has, struggling to breathe. But for some reason, with Richie there, he doesn’t feel the need. Something about Richie… He’s always been able to make Eddie feel stronger than he is. Calmer than he is. “Remember what you said to me? You’re braver than you think.”

\--

Richie is gasping for breath when he lifts his head to look at Eddie. He knows he looks like shit. Eyes puffy and cheeks red, glasses askew on his face and there is probably some snot smeared under his nose. He had fallen apart more than once since they pulled Eddie out of that damned house. Once a day, at least, but usually in the privacy of an empty room. Nothing but him and a comatose Eddie. He had broken once, that first day as the others held him and they waited for Eddie to come out of surgery, but Richie had never liked people seeing him like this. Is so scared of letting people know he isn’t always the loud jokester. So terrified that if people see his cracks then they won’t want him anymore.

He swallows thickly, shoulders trembling. That shaking goes all the way down his arms and to his hands. Holding onto Eddie desperately, like if he lets go then all of this will disappear. He stares at him, struggling for breath as he tries to control his tears because he wants to be the one to be strong for Eddie. He wants to be the strong one for once in his life, wants Eddie to be able to rely on him, finally. He shakes his head, pressing Eddie’s hand up by his lips again. “I wanted to be the one protecting you, for once,” he manages to choke out.

Another broken sob escapes him, and he ducks his head again. He hates this. Hates feeling like this, hates that he can’t think of any stupid jokes to say and even if he could, he isn’t so sure he’d actually be _able_ to say it. And he just feels more and more stupid the more he cries, because there is literally no reason for it. Eddie is going to be okay.

“I love you,” he chokes out, when the tears and the exhaustion and the _relief_ become too much for him to hold it back anymore. “I love you so fucking much, Eds, I fucking tried not to.” He chokes on the words, hands tightening briefly around Eddie’s hand. Even during those years where he didn’t remember, he knew he had been missing _something_. It just wasn’t until Mike’s call that he knew what it was.

\--

Richie is so beautiful. Eddie has thought as much before, mostly back when they were kids. But even now, looking a mess, crying, glasses not even remotely sitting straight on his nose, he’s so fucking beautiful. Eddie wants to say something. He wants to do something. But he doesn’t even know what he could do, what would make Richie feel better. But there should be _something_.

And then his world stops.

Everything stops.

_I love you._

Eddie’s mind is blank. He can’t comprehend the words Richie is saying to him, can’t fathom the depth of emotion pouring out with them. It’s like he was the one caught in the deadlights. Like his mind had blue screened. How is he supposed to respond to something like that? What can he say? ‘I’ve loved you since we were 12’? Or maybe ‘what the fuck are you on about, Tozier?’ Maybe even ‘I love you, too.’

What comes out of his mouth is probably the worst possible thing he could say, but it’s out before he can stop it.

“I’m married, Richie…”

\--

Richie isn’t sure what he had been expecting. Maybe he had been hoping for an ‘I love you, too’. Maybe he had expected Eddie to return the feelings, foolish as that is. Perhaps he had been expecting Eddie to answer with an ‘I know’. Something, anything. But he hadn’t been expecting Eddie to hit him with that. To flatly respond that he’s married, as if Richie doesn’t know that. And it feels like a slap to the face mixed with a punch to the gut. He swallows thickly, trying to remember how to breathe.

“...I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and he sounds infinitely more broken than he had before. His voice quiet and a little pathetic and cracking harshly. Cracking just as hard and rough as his heart is, his chest painfully tight and his stomach churning and twisting. He jerks to his feet, releasing Eddie’s hand. He stumbles across the room to the small bathroom. Collapsing onto his knees so he can throw up.

He gasps for breath, suddenly dizzy. Fuck. What is he supposed to say to that? He had known from the start he wouldn’t get to have Eddie so why had he bothered to try? He coughs, spitting the bile from his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to leave Eddie’s side, but he knows throwing up on him wouldn’t be ideal. He tries to get back to his feet, unsteady and wow, has he actually had anything to drink in the past few days? He’s dizzy and his vision is kind of tunneling. He stumbles his way from the toilet to the sink, rinsing his mouth out. “Fuck,” he breathes out.

\--

The visceral reaction Richie shows to Eddie’s words should have been an obvious consequence, but he’s still reeling over the implication of the confession. _Stupid, Eddie. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ How could he have said that? And the two words Richie says to him, a fucking _apology_. An apology for what? For loving him? For saying it? For being the only one brave enough to face it? The idea that Richie has anything to be sorry for makes Eddie feel ill.

But apparently, not as ill as Richie, who is up and in the bathroom before Eddie can even comprehend he’s let go of his hand. He mourns the loss of the warmth, but he mourns the loss of Richie at his side even more. And even more so when he hears the retching.

_’I threw up. When Mike called. I got nervous and I threw up._

“Richie... Richie, are you ok? Come back, please?” Before he has a chance to get a response though, a nurse comes into the room, presumably having heard Richie loudly retching. Eddie looks at her. “My-” he cuts himself off. My what? Friend seems too… not right. But what else could he say? My Richie? That’s what he wants to say. “He’s in there, make sure he’s ok.”

\--

The nurse clearly had been expecting to see something wrong with Eddie. But he gestures toward the bathroom, and she can hear the man retching. She rushes over to him, carefully placing a hand on his back and guiding him to the sink. “Sir? Are you alright?” she asks, voice soft in the way Richie may have expected a nurse to sound. He nods, trying to gain his breath back, trying not to get too dizzy.

“I’m fine,” he manages to choke out. He lets her guide him back into the seat, and she feels his forehead.

“You’re clammy. I’m going to go get you some water, try not to get up too quickly,” she says, pushing back to her feet. She leaves the room, and Richie stares down at his hands. He reaches towards Eddie’s hand, but stops short. He can’t. He swallows, hand clenching up into a fist that he leaves on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers after a long moment. “I’m… fuck, Eds, I’m sorry just… pretend I didn’t say anything. I can...fuck, I’ll make it stop just…” He sighs, hands rubbing over his face, up under his glasses as he struggles to catch his breath.

\--

When the nurse leaves, Eddie is looking directly at Richie. He looks even worse than before. He’s pale and shaken and still looks sick. The water should do him well. Eddie wonders if the water he drank earlier had been meant for Richie. He wonders when the last time Richie ate or drank anything.

Richie reaches out to him again and Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. But he doesn’t try to take his hand again, just rests his own on the edge of the bed, balled into what must be a frustrated fist. Frustration and sorrow are the only two words Eddie can think of in that moment to describe the way his friend looks. So full of sorrow and frustrated. At who or what is hard to say, but knowing Richie, probably at himself.

And then he goes apologising again.

“Rich. Stop apologising. Stop saying you can make it stop. I don’t _want_ you to make it stop. I don’t want you to think that you can’t feel how you feel, especially not when it’s exactly what I’ve been wanting to hear since we were 12 years old. There are so many things I want to say to you, but I don’t know how and, most importantly, I _can’t_. Not right now. Because when I said that before? I wasn’t trying to make you go away or let you down easy or whatever stupid bullshit you have in your head. I was stating a fact. I’m married. So all the things I want to say or do or be to you, I can’t. I can’t and it _sucks_. Because I can’t stand seeing you like this. It’s the worse thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Worse than lepers and monster vomit and killer clowns. And, Richie…”

By the time he realises he’s just rambled on forever, it’s too late to take any of it back. But it isn’t really like he wants to anyway. He wants to tell Richie everything. But he settles for reaching out for his hand. Anything to connect them again. To feel his warmth.

\--

Richie isn’t sure what he’s feeling, right then. Anger at the universe, maybe. Pissed off that he’s doomed to love a man who he can never have. And he had known that from childhood, since that first tell tale sign of a crush when he was ten fucking years old and Eddie had carefully readjusted his new glasses and told him they looked good. He had known it with every heart doodled around initials and every hug he let last a little too long. Every late night in the bed of his beat up truck as teens, every shared drink and brush of their hands. Every beautiful laugh he got for his dumb jokes. Richie has always known that Eddie isn’t his.

So why does it hurt so bad, now? What is the difference in knowing it and hearing it? Nothing has _changed_ aside from Eddie knowing. Which has ended up just as terrifying as he had always assumed it would be. But that’s fine, it should be fine because Eddie is still alive even if Richie will never get to hold him or kiss him or wake up to him like he so desperately wants.

And then Eddie is talking and it… is a lot. There is a lot to process and should he be talking so much after just waking up? He had barely been able to speak at all a few minutes ago, so really this is probably not great. He’s… fuck, Richie can’t possibly misread this. There is no way to hear this and not understand, Eddie isn’t angry and he isn’t turning him down so much as complaining about not being able to accept. And his hand is reaching out and Richie latches onto it again, as soon as he’s given permission to do so he clings to that hand like it’s the only chance he will ever have.

“...Do you love her?” he ends up asking, and he suspects he knows the answer but he needs to hear it. He needs to know for a fact. He isn’t so sure what he’s going to do with the answer, quite yet, since he doesn’t suspect Eddie will be fond of cheating even if he doesn’t love her. But maybe knowing will quell the ache still throbbing in Richie’s chest.

\--

The moment Richie grabs his hand again it’s like the world falls into place. It’s like all those dumb cliches he’s always loved watching in all those romantic comedies finally make _sense_. Angels singing, light from the heavens, birds chirping, flower petals falling. All of it pales in comparison to the reality that Richie is here, holding his hand like he never wants to let go. Nothing could tear them apart.

Nothing except for that vow he made seven years ago in a dingy church with all of Myra’s friends watching. And none of his own. Because he didn’t have any, or he didn’t remember that he had any. It had always felt a little off, marrying Myra. But it had been convenient. It had been what he was supposed to do.

Right?

He looks at Richie as if he’s pleading for him to tell him that Myra was just some conjuration of Pennywise. Maybe she had just been a lie he told himself. But he knows it isn’t true and he knows staring at Richie isn’t going to make it so, however hard he wishes it would.

Richie’s words hang in the air between them. The answer is right there, they both know it. But it still seems so hard to say, for some reason. So, instead, Eddie just shakes his head, best he can. “She was convenient. She was there. It was… Richie, I couldn’t remember you, I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t…” He sighs and leans his head back a little harder than he probably should, considering his condition. “I hate this stupid town and that stupid clown for ever letting me forget you.”

\--

Eddie holds onto Richie's hand tightly and Richie wants to cry again. Once again, he holds Eddie's hand up to press his lips to his knuckles. Lingering there. He had known the answer. He had known the answer since he found out because he knows goddamn well that Eddie couldn't fall for someone just like his mother. Eddie was made to be a troublemaker. He was born to be the brave, rule breaking kid that Richie had grown up with. Sneaking out and drinking warm beer that Richie had stolen from his parents. There is no way he would settle for the controlling and stuck up woman he has waiting for him at home. Richie had never seen Eddie smile the way he did when they were causing trouble and even as adults, that smile makes his chest tighten up and his heart pound in the base of his throat.

He takes a slow, deep breath. Looking at Eddie with wide, too vulnerable eyes that he wishes he could hide. He doesn’t want to be this scared, this weak. He wants so badly to be the strong one. Stand tall and proud but he has never been able to do it. He has hidden every aspect of himself behind bad jokes and every type of mask possible. He isn’t so sure he had ever liked himself, but he forgets what hating himself feels like when Eddie smiles at him.

"...Do you love me?" he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds. Quiet and broken and very unlike the person he always tries to be. And he can guess, he thinks that perhaps he’s understanding all of this correctly. That maybe Eddie loves him, too, and he doesn’t have to keep running from these feelings. Because even when he didn’t remember Eddie, there had been a very prominent hole in him. An obvious piece missing in him that he had never known how to fill until he remembered who Eddie was.

But he needs to hear it. He needs Eddie to say it for it to be real. He feels dizzy and sick and he probably needs that water, but he can't focus on anything but Eddie's face. Pale and sallow, eyes a little dull, but still so fucking beautiful that Richie kind of wants to die. He keeps holding Eddie's hand, too tight and too desperate and locking eyes with him.

\--

Two of the biggest motor mouths of Derry and here they are, a silence stretching between them after Richie’s latest question. Not because Eddie doesn’t know the answer, or doesn’t want to answer. Because he does. It’s the most obvious and clear thing in his whole life. He’s never been more sure of anything.

No, the silence is something fragile. There’s something there in the quiet of them that Eddie almost doesn’t want to break. He feels like if he breaks the silence it will shatter all of this, and it will all have been a bad dream and they’ll all be lying somewhere dying because of It. And he’s scared, even to say something so simple and true as the answer to the question Richie had asked. Scared that something will happen, something irreparable and terrible. Like Myra will somehow know and condemn him somehow. Like his mother will rise from the grave and smite him. It all sounds so stupid when he actually thinks about it though.

He can feel the edge of panic entering his mind, but Richie is looking at him, so vulnerable and beautiful and it makes Eddie feel good. Calm. Free. His eyes melt inside Richie’s gaze. “I have never loved anyone more.”

It’s then that the nurse from earlier finally appears once more, bringing with her a pitcher of water and two cups. Apparently she thought Eddie could use some water as well. “Are you feeling any better?”

\--

Richie had been expecting the answer, to some extent. But even still, hearing it was like being hit in the solar plexus. He can’t breathe, can’t make himself focus on anything. Eddie loves him. Fuck. How long has he been dreaming of it? Thirty years of hanging on Eddie's every word, even when he didn’t know who he was. Dreams of big brown eyes and a lovely voice that he could never quite remember when he woke up. Lonely nights in a too big apartment with a bottle of scotch wanting someone specific but not realizing it.

He doesn’t bother to look up when the nurse comes back. He takes one of the cups, drinking it down. Partially because he needs it and partially because he wants to rinse his mouth out. He puts the cup down, looking at Eddie again. "...Can you give us a minute?" he ends up croaking out to the nurse. His voice is quiet and still a little uneven. There is a moment of hesitation, and once she had checked Eddie’s vitals she leaves the room. The door is left partially open, but Richie can't stop looking at Eddie's face.

He stands, squeezing Eddie's hand sweetly before releasing him. He moves further up along the bed, reaching with shaking hands to cup Eddies face. Sweet and gentle, not as if Eddie is fragile but as if he is precious, because he is. His touch is reverent, like he’s scared of the moment shattering from the wrong movement. He takes a shaky breath, then leans close to bump their foreheads together. He feels high, so fucking high because he gets to be this close to Eddie. "Thirty years," he breathes out. "Thirty years, you've been it, Eds. I couldn't love someone else if I wanted to." He lingers a long moment, wanting desperately to close that distance but he’s so fucking scared.

But… it was always Eddie being brave. Eddie was always the one facing his fears, standing tall no matter how small he felt. Taking those chances and making those leaps. Doesn’t he deserve to have Richie be the one to push forward? Close his eyes and take that jump, trusting he won't be left to hit the ground?

With that thought in mind, Richie tilts his head to press his lips to Eddie's. Firm but sweet and gentle and Richie wonders briefly if he has actually died.

\--

Eddie barely notices the nurse bustling around and doing her job before she leaves. He can’t care, not with the way Richie looks at him, so completely and utterly open and _happy_. If he’d known that saying something so simple would put such a beautiful look on Richie’s face, he might have done it thirty years ago. As it is, he has some time to make up for.

Richie starts moving but Eddie can’t really pay attention to how, he is too drawn in by the look in his eyes. The _love_ there. He practically melts when Richie’s hand cups his face and Richie’s face gets closer to his. It’s like some wild dream. He still can’t fathom that this can actually even be /real/. The way their foreheads touch like all of those big romantic moments in every trashy romcom, it’s surreal.

Thirty years. Why couldn’t they have just known that when they were kids? Why couldn’t this have started thirty years ago. Then Eddie wouldn’t be married, then maybe they would have been together for all these years. Then even the bullshit that is Derry couldn’t have kept them from remembering each other.

Eddie’s mind blue screens when lips touch his.

There are no thoughts. Just the feeling of soft lips, a little chapped, against his. Firm, yet gentle. Perfect. Almost perfect. Only more perfect if Eddie could taste him. Only if he could deepen the kiss. But he can’t. Not now.

Still, his free hand reaches up and twists into the front of Richie’s shirt, holding on for dear life, not wanting this to end. Never wanting it to end.

\--

Eddie kisses back.

That is the only thing Richie can really think about. Eddie is kissing him back, a hand weakly tangled in the front of his shirt. His lips are chapped from the dry hospital air and he had been intubated for the first two and a half days, so that certainly doesn’t help. But Richie wouldn’t change it. Would never ask for anything more. He had never wanted someone the way he wants Eddie so just this one, too sweet, desperate kiss as Eddie lays in a hospital bed is absolute perfect.

Richie lingers for a long moment, kissing Eddie desperately without losing the softness of it. He might joke about it, later. Make fun of how he manages to be so pathetically desperate despite how sweet of a kiss it is. Right then, he just needs to be closer. Needs to kiss him because he is half convinced he might die, otherwise. And when he does pull away, it’s with a small gasp for breath. Like he can finally breathe, as if he had been on the precipice of drowning his entire life and has finally broken the surface just because Eddie loves him.

He leans their foreheads together, still sweetly cupping Eddie’s face in his hands. “...You called me baby,” he ends up choking out, not quite a whisper, “when we got you out. Was trying to stop the bleeding and you called me baby.”

\--

There’s something so pure, so fragile, about the way they kiss. Despite the desperation evident in both of them. It lasts too long, and not long enough. It’s everything and nothing. Eddie wants more. He _desperately_ wants more. But there’s just that one thing standing in the way. That one little thing.

When Richie pulls back, knocks their foreheads together once more, Eddie feels like he’s finally home. But the words he says… Well that’s embarrassing. Or rather, it would be, had they not just professed their love for one another. Had it been anyone else. Eddie doesn’t remember a bit of it, doesn’t remember bleeding out in Richie’s arms, but he believes it. Believes that is something he would have said in such a moment. A moment of weakness. A moment he likely thought was his last.

“I’d say it again but…” Eddie closes his eyes, wanting to hide the pain he feels deep in his heart. “Richie, does Myra know I’m here? Does she know I’m hurt?”

\--

The moment lasts too long and nowhere near long enough. Their foreheads press so sweetly together, simply existing together for a few blissful moments. Richie wants to hold onto it. Wants to never let it go, cling to it like he had clung to every moment with Eddie. Scared of forgetting again. So fucking terrified that he will look up and not know who this amazing man is anymore. And even more scared that Eddie will forget him. That he will look at him and Eddie won’t get that bright and warm recognition in his eyes.

And then Eddie speaks and Richie blinks. Needing a moment to process the question. He swallows then shrugs. "I don’t know. I guess they went through your emergency contacts but since we were all here maybe they didn’t?" He shrugs again, absently tracing his fingers over Eddie's face. Loving and sweet, tracing the curve of his jaw and the arch of his brow. "I sure as hell didn’t call her," he adds.

Because why would he? Why would he want her to know, why would he ever want to call the woman who had stolen the man he loved. Maybe it’s petty and wrong of him, but he wanted to be the one Eddie saw when he woke up. He wants to be the one holding his hand, tracing his face like he is now. "...Are you mad at me for that?" he asks, sounding so unbearably small. Still so scared he is about to lose this, that Eddie will decide his wife is more important. Richie is selfish, wanting to keep holding on. "I mean… I'm kind of a selfish bitch," he adds, a weak attempt at a joke.

\--

Eddie hates the way his questions deflate Richie. He hates the way he reverts to his classic attempts at deflection. Eddie doesn’t _want_ to talk about her, but he _has_ to. He has to talk about her, he has to talk _to_ her. Because there is a lot of paperwork and likely a lot of screaming that needs to happen before he can do the things he really wants to.

There are so many things he wants to do. Starting with kissing Richie again. He really wants to kiss Richie again. And tell him all of the things about him that make Eddie smile, even when he’s making the worst jokes ever. And he wants to hold him close and never let go. He wants to curl up against him fall asleep, finally _safe_.

Eddie brings the hand that is still clutching at Richie’s shirt up to the side of his face. His thumb traces the jut of his cheekbone. “You are a selfish bitch, Richie Tozier, but I could never be mad at you. Not really.” He smiles, wanting so badly to kiss him again, but not willing to cross the line in the sand he’s drawn himself. Not until he’s free of Myra and can do _everything_ he wants to.

His smile falters, “I need to talk to her. And a lawyer, probably. Fuck.”

\--

Immediately, Richie’s face tilts into Eddie’s hand. Melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it his whole life. And he kind of has been. His whole life, just waiting for the chance to be Eddie’s. His own hand comes up to press Eddie’s more firmly against the side of his face, and his eyes flit shut as he allowed himself a moment to bask in it. A moment to really let it sink in that this is happening. It is dead, Eddie is alive and he is holding onto his face like he loves him. He said he loves him. It’s so much to take in, so much to handle and Richie feels his eyes stinging again.

Then, his eyes snap wide open. “Lawyer?” he asks, sounding… so unlike himself. Sounding too small and confused because he really can’t wrap his brain around the idea of anyone - least of all Eddie - thinking he’s worth a divorce. He doesn’t believe it, he can’t. His own parents hadn’t even really wanted him, so why would Eddie? Why would the amazing, beautiful, brave man lying in front of him ever want to dismantle his arguably successful life just for him? It doesn’t make sense, nothing about it makes any sense.

Richie takes a deep, uneven breath, then turns his head enough to press his lips to Eddie’s wrist. Lingering there for a long moment, eyes shutting again as he tries to remember how to breathe. “...Why d’you need a lawyer?” he makes himself ask. And he knows it’s stupid and patheitc and so fucking weak of him, but he needs it. Needs to know because it doesn’t matter if Eddie had already said he doesn’t love Myra. Richie needs to be told the reason or else he will never be able to let himself believe it.

\--

“You know, Trashmouth, for a pretty smart guy, you’re really fucking dumb sometimes.” Eddie smiles but there’s an undercurrent of sadness in it. He’s never been more sure of needing to do anything. Well, maybe when he threw that fence post at It. but this is a pretty close second. Still, it’s not a nice thing, a divorce. “Why would I stay in a loveless marriage when all I want is to keep kissing you?”

Eddie strokes at Richie’s face again, really feeling that urge once again. But he can’t. Not yet. He’ll have all the time in the world, once the paperwork goes through. “She’s going to be so pissed…” he mutters. If there is one human being that can rival Eddie for temper, it is Myra Kaspbrak. She could even rival his late mother with her cold anger and demanding tones.

His eyes slip shut as he shudders with the thought. “Richie… You’ll stay, right?” He can’t do this alone. He could barely stand up to his mother, and Myra is so much worse.

\--

Richie can’t help the little huff of laughter. Eddie used to say that kind of shit to him all the time. Having all these memories of his childhood back is… kind of throwing him for a loop, really. Remembering that Eddie used to call him a dumbass and brilliant in the same breath, laughing at whatever stupid shit Richie was doing. It had always made Richie’s chest tighten up and his stomach twist and turn with butterflies. And even right now, it’s making him feel like a kid with a crush.

But that smile falters and it no longer reaches his eyes. Dull, like he looked on stage spouting out bullshit that someone else wrote. “...My own parents didn’t even want me, Eds,” he shrugs, pressing his face into Eddie’s palm again, “so why would anyone else?”

The idea of sitting there while another Mrs. K has a bitch fit isn’t Richie’s idea of a good time. But, he also knows he would do quite literally anything if Eddie asked him to. And on top of that, if he doesn’t want to deal with it then there was no way Eddie wants to. Richie can’t leave him to face it alone. He shakes his head, squeezing Eddie’s hand once more and kissing the heel of his palm. Because he’s allowed to. Eddie is letting him, isn’t freaking out or getting angry over Richie loving him so desperately. And Richie is going to take advantage of it.

“Course I’ll stay, dumbass,” he answers. “I’ve got one more Kaspbrak I need to get my mouth on. If you collect the full set, you get a coin,” he offers, his smile small, but much more genuine this time.

\--

Watching the way Richie’s face falls right before he says that little thing about his parents like it’s the most obvious thing in the world wrecks Eddie’s heart, tears up his insides more than any clown could do. “Richie,” Eddie says, firmly, commanding his attention. He tries to use his one hand to force Richie to look at him. “You’re a Loser, we will all always want you, no matter how fucking obnoxious you are. As for me… Well, you know how I feel now.”

Eddie can only hope his words get through. But if they don’t… well he’ll have some time to prove it from now on.

The next words out of Richie’s mouth are exactly the kind of thing Eddie has been craving since he woke up. And now, hearing them, he uses the hand that had been holding Richie’s face so sweetly to slap his shoulder. Hard. “If you kiss my wife, I’m never going to kiss you again.” The words have no real weight though, said through a brilliant smile as they are. Eddie is happy to hear Richie joking like he always has. He had never realised how much he _missed_ Richie’s terrible jokes until he came back to Derry. Which, yeah of course not because he didn’t even remember him. But he always knew something about his life was far too boring.

Yet again, Eddie wishes he wasn’t married, wishes that potential guilt didn’t exist. He wants to kiss Richie so goddamn bad! Wants to show just how much the man means to him. Later. Now, now Eddie needs to get on the phone with his wife. “Is my phone around here?”

\--

It had been such a stupid joke, but Eddie's blinding smile is worth it. And isn’t that always the goal behind his jokes? Eddie's attention, his approval. The chance to see his bright smile and hear that amazing laugh. That has always been the driving factor behind his jokes. Sure, the attention from everyone else is nice, but it’s Eddie his eyes are drawn to every time he speaks. Waiting to see if he will laugh or smile or anything. And every time Eddie laughed, Richie would run the awful joke into the fucking ground to _keep_ him laughing.

He has always been a little pathetic, it seems.

He smiles, though, and leans in to kiss lovingly at Eddie's forehead. He will respect Eddie's desire to be a decent human being and not cheat on his wife, no matter how annoying it is. But that doesn’t forbid forehead kisses, does it? You can kiss just a friend on the head without it being weird, right? He lingers a long moment, a soft smile on his lips making it less of a kiss, now, and more just resting his lips against Eddie's head.

"Edward!" The voice that breaks that moment is vaguely shrill, and Richie jerks back so fast he’s genuinely concerned he’ll hurt his back.

The voice belongs to a woman rushing into the room, and for a brief moment Richie is convinced one Sonia Kaspbrak had clawed her way out of the ground to come kill him for touching her son. It takes a hot second to realize this is actually Myra. And...that just leaves a whole lot of awful jokes that he’s a little too frightened to make right now. She hurries in, completely ignoring him.

But it isn’t the normal type of ignoring. This is the type of ignoring where she’s very acutely aware of him. Wanting to make sure he _knows_ she’s ignoring him. Poignant and a little bitchy as she grabs too roughly at Eddie's face and starts showering him with little kisses and stupid pet names said in a cutesy voice that kind of make Richie want to gag. Though, watching someone else touching Eddie at all makes him feel sick again, anyway, but there would be nothing left to vomit up. He has barely eaten since they brought Eddie in.

"Edward, honey, I was so scared! I got a phone call and the doctors said you were hurt! What happened to you, what did they do to you?" she gushes out, and something about it sounds so artificial. So fake and Richie feels himself bristle.

"Old house we used to fuck around in," he says. "Went to revisit. Dry rot in a load bearing wall, whole thing collapsed when he leaned on it. Entire house came down on us." But Myra ignores him entirely, talking over him with those too sweet pet names that make Richie want to smack her.

\--

Eddie can’t help the way he positively melts when Richie kisses his forehead. It’s one of those things that Eddie could definitely get used to, but also never get used to. Always falling apart into a puddle at the tender affection in such an action.

Only to have the perfect moment ruined by the very woman he had been wanting to avoid but needing to talk to. Myra Kaspbrak, looking like she’d struggled to make it to the room, having to carry her extra weight. The way she practically bodies into Richie, turning away from him and trying to body block him from getting near Eddie, sets Eddie on edge. He has never liked the way Myra always imposes herself in his life and keeps him from really getting close to anyone else, but when she uses that imposing presence to keep Richie away? It sets his head aflame.

Her kisses and fawning over him are painfully fake. Even for them. She’s clearly only putting the show up for the benefit of others, and in this case, it’s really just for Richie. The way she grabs at him hurts and he winces in pain as she pulls at his face and gushes her supposed concern to him. She even goes so far as to talk over Richie answering the very question she had asked, further proving she doesn’t actually care. Which is probably a good thing, because the explanation doesn’t exactly cover why there’s a stab wound in his cheek and is only vaguely good at explaining how he ended up impaled.

Every second is making Eddie more and more angry. “Myra, stop, you’re hurting me.” He doesn’t even bother telling her to stop with the disgusting names she calls him. It’s not worth it. Instead, he looks to Richie, trying to find some strength or… something. This moment reminds him far too much of the moment he yelled at his mother about her bullshit medications. Finally, he grabs Myra’s wrist and forces her to stop, looking her in the eyes. “Myra. We need to talk.”

\--

Richie's jaw clenches up. He already doesn’t like her. It doesn’t look like she genuinely gives a shit what happens to Eddie, and it’s even more clear because of the way she’s tugging and pulling at him like he isn’t healing from a massive injury. He’s about to reach and grab her, demand she back the fuck up and stop hurting him, when Eddie does it himself. Stands up to her, even if only a bit, and Richie is reminded harshly how fucking brave this man is. So Richie bites his tongue and stays put, offering a soft little smile over Myra’s shoulder at him. He can do this, Richie knows he can. Eddie has always been the bravest of them all, making himself do things no matter how scared he is.

Myra blinks once, then twice, shocked with the way Eddie grabs her wrists. "Edward?" she asks, and it’s so fucking weird to hear someone calling him by his full name. Richie doesn’t like it.

"What do we need to talk about, sweetie?" she continues, tugging her wrists free to touch his face again. Richie tries to mask his annoyance as best he can.

Myra finally turns to him, and the look on her face changes drastically. Pulled tight, lips pursed like an old woman as she glowers at him. "This sounds like it's going to be a personal matter. I think it's best that you leave."

Richie raises a brow, then crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back against the wall. "Nah I'm good here, thanks," he says. "I don’t think I trust Eddie not to get himself killed if left alone. Trying to get it on with his wife before he's even healed up? I get it, buddy, but let the wound close."

Myra’s nose twitches. "Eddie?" she demands, almost incredulous. Like she can’t believe anyone would call him by such a name.

\--

Myra asks all of her questions in such rapid fire he doesn’t even know what to answer first. But when she turns to Richie, demanding he leave the room, he boils. At nearly the same time as Richie answers her, Eddie gives his own emphatic, “No!” He asked Richie to stay and he sure doesn’t want him leaving now.

The ensuing joke though… Eddie is torn between a sheepish smile of thanks for the levity and a scowl for the truly inappropriate timing. He’s tempted to ‘beep beep’ him, but he doesn’t want to scare him off. Instead he focuses on Myra’s confusion at the nickname. “Yeah, that’s what everyone here called me. But, that’s not important.”

Myra looks at him with nearly the exact same look his mother used to give him that almost always resulted in him slinking back and doing whatever it was she wanted. Except for that one time. How could he have forgotten? He spares another glance toward Richie, for bravery. “Myra, I…” there would probably be a better time to say this to her, but honestly, he can’t fathom living the lie any longer. Not with Richie right there. “I want a divorce.”

\--

Richie isn’t sure how he was expecting Eddie to handle this. He really isn’t. But whatever image he might have had in his head? It definitely hadn’t been this. Just straight up saying it minutes after she arrives. No preface, no easing her into it. Though, to be perfectly honest, it’s exactly what he should have expected. That’s just the type of person Eddie has always been. And Richie is so fucking in love with him.

Myra turns to look at Eddie, eyes wide. Rage flashes over her face before she covers it with that same sickening look Richie can remember seeing Sonia get when she wanted to make Eddie stay home. She reaches forward again, grabbing for Eddie’s face and it takes everything in Richie’s power not to grab her and make her stop. It isn’t his right, to. He knows that, this is Eddie’s wife and their argument and him interfering would likely just make it worse. So he does his best to keep control, hands curling into tight fists where his arms are crossed over his chest.

“Edward, sweetie, you’re hurt!” she says, voice sickeningly sweet. “Your body is in shock and you must be on some very heavy medications right now!” Holding too tightly to his face, her voice too high and exactly the same manipulative bullshit Sonia had always pulled and Richie has never wanted to punch a woman more in his life. This fucking woman wants to control Eddie like a toy and he’s so angry at her.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll take care of you and you’ll be in your right mind and it’ll all be okay,” she continues, and Richie’s jaw clenches up.

“He’s not out of his mind,” he huffs, immediately wincing since he had promised himself he wouldn’t do it.

\--

“Oh, fuck off, Myra. You don’t give a damn about me except that I’m yours to control. We’ve never been in _love_ and you know it.” Eddie’s rage is beginning to boil over, and he’s unable to stop the torrent pouring from his mouth. He can’t even bring himself to be mad at the way Richie injects his own comment. He’s too angry at Myra’s false show of affection. Her need to be in control. The way she treats him like he can’t handle himself.

“Richie’s right, I’m fine. I’m hurt, yeah. But I’m not on nearly enough drugs for it to not hurt when you paw at me like that. I’m not kidding, this isn’t some joke. I want a divorce and I want it _now_.” His voice has steadily been climbing in volume and in speed and he can feel it exhausting him already. Maybe this argument isn’t the best thing to have so soon after waking up from a five day coma.

But he _needs_ this to happen now. He wants to find the best divorce lawyer he can as fast as he can and he wants this whole sham of a marriage to be in his past. Maybe Stan has connections, or Bill, or even Ben. Bev even, she’s probably left her trash fire of a relationship by now as well. He’s sure it won’t take much to find the legal assistance and the paperwork needed.

“You can have the house, most everything in it, I don’t care. But I’m leaving, Myra. There’s nothing you can fucking do about it!” And that last exclamation really takes the wind out of his sails. He’s still angry, face warm from it. But he’s also breathing hard, his heart rate monitor beeping much faster. He wouldn’t be shocked if a nurse comes rushing in any minute now to see if he’s alright.

\--

Richie is a little ashamed to admit it, but listening to Eddie getting that heated is vaguely arousing. Of course, with everything else going on, it isn’t enough to _actually_ turn him on, but that is certainly something to explore later on. He knows this is stressful for him. Eddie is brave, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for him. And Richie is so tempted to reach over and take his hand. Trace his face lovingly, assure him that he’s right there. Try to protect him like he has always tried even as kids, despite knowing damn well he had usually been more of a coward than any of the others.

And then Eddie is getting worked up, and the monitors start beeping and Richie’s chest tightens up. He can’t breathe, panic lighting up because he has been listening to that monitor go uneven and unstable for five days and even though he can see that Eddie is awake and more or less okay, it’s horrifying. Sends a surge of pure terror down his spine and he bites back a pathetic noise as he finally jerks forward.

He reaches towards Eddie, but is able to stop himself from touching him before it’s too late. He’s still acutely aware of the fact that Myra is right there and not happy. “Eddie, you’ve got to calm down before you open the wounds back up,” he says, voice tight and the panic clear in how he says it. So fucking scared that Eddie’s stability is about to disappear, slipping through his fingers and leaving him entirely and he can’t stand the idea of it. He can’t let Eddie slip away again.

Myra ends up shoving Richie back, and Richie stumbles without taking his eyes off Eddie. “Get away from him!” she demands, nearly trembling in her rage. “This is your fault, isn’t it! You’ve...you’ve _corrupted_ him! You’ve manipulated him and now he’s spouting nonsense!” Her voice is shrill and she turns completely on Richie. Facing him entirely, trying to block him from Eddie’s side. “You absolute heathen! You dirty little _sodomite_ you’ve wormed your way into his head!”

Richie’s jaw clenches up, but even still he doesn’t take his eyes off Eddie. As if terrified that if he looks away, Eddie will slip back under and end up worse off than he had before. “Eddie, don’t get worked up, please, you’re still fucked up,” he ends up saying, voice cracking.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp sting at the side of Richie’s face and it takes him a long moment to realize Myra had slapped him. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. It leaves his glasses askew on his face, and a red mark already starting up on his cheek. And even still, despite everything, Richie keeps looking at Eddie.

\--

Eddie hears Richie. He hears him, and he wants to calm down, he really does. He wants to take a deep breath and let his heart rate settle and try to lower his blood pressure before his wounds start bleeding through his bandages. He _wants_ to do that.

But he can’t.

Not when Myra starts yelling about manipulation and corruption and _sodomy_. Richie has never been dirty in his life, he’s always been kind and brave and always just trying to make people laugh. He’s always been a shining beacon of _goodness_ in Eddie’s life. Never dirty. Not even Eddie’s mother could convince him of that.

And Eddie has never been good at controlling his temper.

“Myra!” He shrieks. The sound of his voice only rivaled by the lingering sound of Myra’s hand against Richie’s face. Eddie is very familiar with the expression ‘seeing red,’ being a temperamental person. But never has it felt a more apt description for how he feels in that moment. He knows it’s dangerous to be this worked up, and he hears Richie’s protests. But he can’t, not now. His only regret in that moment is that he is physically incapable of moving. He wants to wrench Myra away, physically kick her out of the room.

Instead, he turns all of his rage to her, “Don’t you _ever_ talk to him that way. Don’t you _dare_ lay hands on him. He has done _nothing_ but love and support me and _he_ is the reason I am alive right now. You do not get to even _speak_ to him.” His voice is low now, dangerous, full of all of the vitriol he can manage. “Get out, I’ll be contacting you when I have the paperwork drafted. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Sight.”

The monitors are going fairly wild now, beeping in alarm, and Eddie can see the way it turns Richie’s face white with fear. It hurts, that he’s causing that, that he is making Richie scared. But he can’t help it. He presses the call button at his bedside for a nurse to at least mitigate whatever damage he may have done to himself.

\--

Richie hates those beeps. Fuck, he hates the noise of that monitor going crazy. All he can see is Eddie’s face, pale and gray as he teetered on the edge of death. Can feel how cold and clammy his hand was, can see how shallow and uneven his breathing had been. All he can see is Eddie on the verge of death and he isn’t strong enough to handle that again. He just doesn’t have it in him to watch Eddie so close to death a second time and he hates Myra for making him so angry.

He hates himself for making Eddie so angry.

He jerks forward, past Myra, and despite how desperate he is, his hands are gentle and loving as he cups Eddie’s face. He can’t stand back anymore. He knows it’s going to upset her more, he knows that but he can’t stand there and let Eddie do this. Can’t let him risk hurting himself further, can’t risk losing him. He swallows thickly, thumbs rubbing sweetly over Eddie’s cheeks.

“Eds, c’mon, please don’t,” he says, voice cracking. He knows he’s pale, that the terror is there in his eyes and he can’t help but feel bad. “Not trying to kink shame here but if you like getting hurt there are safer ways to do it.” His voice cracks as he says it, and the joke isn’t all that heartfelt. A desperate attempt to fight back the fear, really.

And he hasn’t even finished saying it before two nurses are rushing in. “Sir, please stand back,” one of them says, voice short and efficient but not unkind. Richie swallows thickly and releases Eddie, getting out of their way so they can check on him.

“Mr. Kaspbrak, do you feel any pain?” one of them asks, checking the connection of the leads on his body as the other nurse starts examining his bandages.

“It doesn’t look like the wound has reopened, which is a good thing,” the second nurse says, gentle as she touches the bandages on his abdomen.

“This man has done nothing but disrupt my husband’s wellbeing,” Myra began, looking as if she has won, somehow. Once again, all Richie can do is stare helplessly at Eddie.

\--

Richie steps forward and the touch against his skin helps Eddie to calm down a bit. Myra is still in the room, so he’s still simmering, his anger roiling just under the surface, but it’s better with Richie so close, practically petting him. Even with his god awful joke. “I’m sure you’d love to see that, hmm, Tozier?” he remarks quietly. Privately.

Then the nurses rush into the room. Richie is pushed back while the work at checking him over. “I’m fine, everything is fine. Just got a little worked up.” He smiles to the nurses looking after him, trying to reassure them. He’s glad the wound hasn’t reopened, that could have been disastrous.

And then Myra speaks.

“I swear to fucking god, Myra,” Eddie says, exasperated. He almost explodes at her again. Considers it. But he looks over at Richie, sees how scared he is, how worried he is. It’s just enough to make Eddie rethink his plan. He takes a deep breath and turns to the nurse finishing off checking his bandages. In the most professional, calm voice he can muster, he speaks, “Ma’am, please see that my wife is no longer allowed to visit my room. We are currently experiencing a nasty divorce and she is causing my blood pressure to rise and putting my recovery in danger.” Finally, he looks over at Myra, raising a brow, daring her to fight back.

\--

One of the nurses, the younger one who had been checking on Eddie’s bandages, pauses abruptly and blinks a few times. She looks between Eddie, Richie, and Myra, then to the other nurse. “...I’m sorry, sir, I just…” She shakes her head, lips pressing together. The older nurse doesn’t stop her inspection of the equipment and of Eddie’s general well being.

“We thought Mr. Tozier was your lover,” she says simply. But her answer only seems to enrage Myra.

“That man is a degenerate and has been planting absurd ideas in Edward’s head-” she begins, but the older of the nurses turns on her, her face hardened and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Ma’am, my patient has requested you leave his room. His well being is my primary concern and you are clearly agitating him when he needs to rest. If you do not remove yourself then I _will_ call security to remove you,” she demands. Then, she glances briefly at Richie. “And you can return to your spot, sir. And drink some of that water, you look worse than he does.” She offers half a smile, and Richie can’t help the short burst of laughter that he lets out.

Immediately, he returns to Eddie’s side. And he’s so tempted to reach for him again. But he has already caused so much trouble and if Myra gets more angry then so will Eddie and Richie won’t allow himself to be the reason Eddie disrupts his own healing. So he just settles down in his chair that had been dragged too close to the bed and looks at Eddie.

“Stop scaring the fuck out of me, man. I’m an old man my heart can’t take it,” he ends up saying, voice cracking and he realizes his throat is tight and his eyes sting with unshed tears.

\--

Eddie nearly breaks out in laughter at the nurse’s assumption. Not because she’s wrong, but because of how obvious it must be to the entire world outside of their two dumb brains. They’ve been in love for almost thirty years, it _should_ be as she says. It _will_ be.

Once that paperwork goes through.

Until then, he’s still got a wife that is finally slinking out of the room after threat of security. He hopes he never has to see her again, quite honestly, although he probably will. He does still have some things he’ll need to get from their house. But that’s later.

Now, Richie is back where he belongs, right at his side. The nurses are fawning over him for his pale face in the face of Eddie’s potential downturn in health. And Eddie is back to looking back at Richie with all the love in the world, rage and anger utterly forgotten.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Richie Tozier. I will never forgive you.” But there’s no bite. Really, his voice is soft and slightly gravely from the sudden intense use he had just forced it to endure. He reaches his hand out, just brushing his fingers against Richie’s where they are resting against his knees. He hopes his smile speaks the words he can’t.


	2. Confessions Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m home. This is what home feels like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of soft reddie ahead!

Richie hadn’t hesitated in the slightest when it came to offering his home up for Eddie to stay. There had really been no question, after all. So it isn’t a surprise that, when Eddie finally was released from the hospital, Richie brings him back to California with him. He’s been doting on him, which is a strange mix with the loud insults they throw back and forth. They had gotten some strange looks from other people at the airport. But it’s so good. So wonderful to be with him like this again. To banter with him the way they used to. Even if he has to help him up the stairs.

His mail is neatly piled on the table with a lovely note from his neighbor - a little old lady, nearing eighty - and everything else is just as he left it. Which… is kind of a mess, if he’s to be honest. Not _dirty_ exactly, but chaos. Nothing with its own place, strewn about wherever it fits. A kitchen he would have loved to use if he had ever had someone to share his meals with, his clothes clean and folded, but piled in a chair instead of in the dresser. His bathroom sink more or less clean, his fridge restocked by that kind neighbor of his.

It’s lonely.

But...Eddie is there now. Eddie is in his home and Richie isn’t sure what he’s expecting. Divorce papers were drafted, though Myra still hasn’t signed anything. She’s being, predictably, difficult. But those papers were drafted and that means Eddie is okay with pushing a bit further with Richie. He is officially separated from his wife, after all.

“Well. This is the humble abode,” Richie says, glancing around. It’s perhaps a little big for a single person. And...looking around, it hits Richie just _how_ lonely he has been. It’s obvious in the way he lives. More than one take out pamphlet pinned to his fridge despite how he’s far from a bad cook, no photos on the walls or shelves, and one pillow on his king sized bed. Richie can’t help but wonder, now, how he had ever lived like this. If it could be considered living.

“C’mon and sit down. Cleared to leave the hospital does not a healed man make. Sit your cute ass down,” he huffs, guiding Eddie over to the couch. “Need me to check the bandages?”

\--

Recovery had been… really good actually. The pain sucked, still does. The whole staying in the hospital stuck in bed for days sucked. And having nurses hovering over him was about as miserable as growing up under the shadow of his mother. But Richie was there. Had been there the whole damn time, hardly leaving him even to sleep, instead sleeping in the shitty chair next to his bed unless the hospital staff chased him out. But Eddie’s pretty sure most of them had a soft spot for Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier. And at least some of them were familiar with his act, granting him far more leeway than he ever should have had.

And when Richie offered his home to Eddie when he was _finally_ released from godforsaken Derry, Eddie snatched up that opportunity before he even really considered it. It isn’t like he was going to go back to New York, back to his house with Myra. It just made sense for him to go with Richie.

Especially considering that now that the divorce papers were officially sent to Myra, it marked the beginning of his separation from her. Meaning he doesn’t have to hold back so much. Maybe a little, because he still feels weird being in a _relationship_ while he’s married. But at least he gets to kiss Richie now.

He likes kissing Richie.

The trip was a lot, considering he is still technically recovering from being _impaled_ , but Richie helps. He helps a lot. Even when they’re yelling at each other, flinging insults like they hate each other. It’s all from a place of love, it’s just the way they work.

Richie welcomes him into his home when they arrive, and Eddie passes through the threshold and looks around. It looks… pretty much exactly how he had expected it to, really. It’s a mess, but not dirty. Well cared for, just chaotic. With all the markers of a bachelor living alone. Something that will probably change now that Eddie’s there.

And something strikes him then, right as Richie tells him to sit down. As he’s being guided to the couch, his mind is hit with the incredible force of his realisation. He doesn’t even have a smart ass retort to Richie’s comments, though there is one burning at the edge of his brain. Instead he sits heavily and looks up at Richie. “I’m home. This is what home feels like.” Because he hasn’t felt like he was _home_ since he was about twelve years old. Since before It came into their lives. But this… This is home.

\--

Richie pauses with comically wide eyes when Eddie speaks. The look in his eyes is...odd. Shocked but warm. Happy. And Richie feels his throat tighten up. He lowers himself down to his knees in front of Eddie, reaching to cup his face with gentle hands. “...Yeah. Finally feels like home,” he agrees, voice too quiet to really be coming from him. He is, by default, a loud person. He isn’t used to showing quite so much vulnerability, even to Eddie. But it’s difficult not to after nearly thirty years. After so long of not remembering him but knowing he was missing.

He swallows thickly, thumb brushing over Eddie’s cheek. Then his lips, tracing them sweetly. Then moving his fingers over his entire face. The bridge of his nose, the arch of his brow, along his jaw and cheeks and back over his lips. “...I love you, Eds,” he says, even more quietly than he had been before. He has said it plenty of times since Eddie had announced his divorce to Myra. But something about saying it now, saying it here, makes it feel more important. Makes it feel special, like the start of a new life.

Richie pushes back up to his feet, leaning down to press his lips to Eddie’s. Soft and sweet and so fucking perfect. Everything he’s been wanting since he was too young to realize it. And for perhaps the first time in his life, he feels like everything is right. Like the world is exactly as it’s supposed to be and he can’t get over it. He needs it more than he needs to breathe, wants to cling to it and never let go.

He nudges their noses together sweetly before pulling away, smiling down at him. “...Holy fuck,” he says quietly. “We’ve...got a fuck ton of adult shit to talk about, and not the fun adult shit but the livelihood and finances kind. But that can wait, right? I’m allowed to put it off and just...hold you for a little bit, right?”

\--

Eddie is pretty sure he’ll never get use to these soft moments, to the way Richie turns all gooey and vulnerable when they have half a moment of serious affection. He’ll never get use to it. It will always feel this fresh, this new. Every time. The way Richie traces his face like he’s waited his whole life to do it. And, Eddie supposes, he has. But it’s still hard to fathom. Hard to fathom Richie has been in love with _him_ for so long. Hard to believe he’s never found anyone better.

And those words, god, he’ll never tire of those words. Still, he’s gotta set the record straight, “Goddamnit, Richie, stop calling me that!” But there’s nothing in his tone to back up the words. It’s true, he secretly loves the dumb nicknames Richie comes up with, loves that Richie came up with them. “I love you, too, Richie.” It feels so good to say it. To be able to say it.

When Richie kisses him, it’s like everything falls into place. Everything is right with the world. It is dead, Bev isn’t getting beaten, Bill can actually write a decent ending, and Eddie. Eddie is here, with Richie, just like it was always meant to be.

Richie’s words bring reality crashing down, but in a gentle enough way that Eddie can smile. “I think we’ve earned at least an hour of no adult talk.” Eddie grins, “At least, none that doesn’t include you calling my ass cute again.”

\--

Richie smiles brightly at Eddie, absolutely beaming at him. Smiling at Eddie like the idea that Eddie loves him is the greatest thing to ever happen to him because it _is_. It’s absolutely the greatest thing to ever happen to him. And the idea of just holding him for a bit? That’s...so good. So amazing. Richie can’t _stop_ smiling at this point. He continues on with tracing over Eddie’s face for a moment, still beaming at him.

Then his stomach growls at him and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten in almost twelve hours.

But his smile just grows and a surprising type of excitement bubbles deep in his stomach as he pops up to his feet. “Are you hungry?” he asks, “Do you want lunch?” He nearly _bounces_ on the balls of his feet, grabbing for Eddie’s hands. Fuck, when was the last time he had felt this type of excitement? When was the last time he had been so fucking excited for something? So excited over the idea of feeding someone he loves.

“What do you want? Hold on, wait, let me look what Mrs. Dillinger bought, she said she refilled my cupboards and shit, let me see what she got I’ll cook us something. I can’t fucking tell you the last time I cooked for someone, what the fuck! Wait, can you get up again, broken boy? Come sit with me so I can cook for you!”

\--

It’s so beautiful to watch the way Richie’s face lights up. He’s always beautiful, but fuck he’s stunning when he smiles like that. So unguardedly happy. Eddie isn’t sure he’s ever seen it before, and the thought is a little sad, but also he’s so powerfully happy that Richie can finally feel safe enough to feel that way now.

And then Richie’s stomach growls.

Somehow, Richie’s already wide smile, grows a fraction further. Suddenly, Richie isn’t only happy, but he’s physically _bouncing_. And it’s almost like they’re thirteen again and he’s showing something off, but it’s better because he’s even _more_ excited and Eddie can’t help the infectious smile that falls over his own face. “Starved, yeah.”

When Richie launches into his rambling, Eddie just smiles, coming along for the ride. He scowls lightly at Richie’s newfound name for him. “Fine, make the cripple move,” he complains, even as he’s already relocating to a position closer to the kitchen so he can watch Richie cook. “Since when do you _cook_ , Tozier?” Not that Eddie doesn’t believe he can, but rather, it’s a bit of a surprise to think of that gangly kid he used to know making some kind of edible meal for another person.

Eddie sits on a stool overlooking the kitchen, chin is his hand as he watches the love of his life bustle about. Were anyone to look at him, they would undoubtedly think he’s fallen under some sort of spell, with the way he’s softly looking on, mesmerised. He kind of is, one he never really thought he’d ever be under. Love. Eddie Kaspbrak is head over heels in love with Richie Tozier. “What are you making me, Trashmouth? It better not be poisonous. Be pretty fucking sad to get all the way here only to die because you can’t cook.”

\--

Richie immediately reaches for Eddie, nearly carrying him to the stool overlooking the kitchen so Eddie doesn’t have to walk. He knows it’s a lot, he’s completely doting on him. But the idea of Eddie being that hurt again, his wounds reopening and the idea that Richie could possibly lose him again? He hates it, it makes him panic like he didn’t realize was possible. So he figures maybe he can be forgiven for being a bit mother-hennish right then. His hands linger on Eddie for a moment after he’s settled, and Richie can’t help but lean in to brush his lips over Eddies temple before he goes further into the kitchen.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, poking through his cabinets. “I learned how to cook when I was like, fourteen and my parents stopped bothering to give a shit if I had eaten or not.” He shrugs, as if not realizing how horrible of a statement that is. But it had been true. His parents had never really wanted him, and as he got older, they stopped pretending to care what he did or how well taken care of he was. So he started learning how to take care of himself. How to do his own laundry, how to work the dishwasher, how to cook his own meals.

And he enjoys it. He likes to cook, but it had never been satisfying when he was the only one eating it. Cooking for an empty home, putting leftovers away so he could go lie in an empty bed? It had been awful. So he hasn’t cooked a real meal in some time. But now? He has the chance to cook for the man he’s so painfully in love with and he’s excited about food in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time. “I don’t know what we’re having yet, I don’t know what Miss Dee shoved into my house. Probably way more than I needed, she’s like an old hispanic grandmother demanding I need to eat more.” He hums absently, brows furrowed.

“You like alfredo? Looks like I’ve got parmesan and heavy cream. I’m sure I’ve got basil, oregano, rosemary….” He mused, more to himself than to Eddie. “Could do zucchini and chicken with alfredo.” He looks over at Eddie, smiling at him. “C’mon who was the last person to cook for you who knew what good food tastes like? Because the newest Mrs. K looks like she’s never seen a seasoning in her life.”

\--

Eddie regrets asking the question when Richie answers it. Not because he doesn’t want to hear the answer, but because thinking of Richie, back when they were kids, practically taking care of himself _hurts_. Eddie falls a little bit more in love with him realising how incredibly strong he’s been his entire life. But the moment passes almost as soon as it comes, and Richie seems to have forgotten the comment as he goes on about his neighbour restocking his fridge.

He mumbles as he lists of ingredients and ideas for a meal. It’s cute, watching him get excited about something like that. Eddie pillows his face in his hands just to watch him with a look he might have been embarrassed about had anyone else seen it.

He’s knocked from his admiration when Richie turns to him, bringing up his _wife_. Eddie scowls, his default reaction to pretty much anything Richie says, “I’m al- I-” he pauses, musing. He’s _not_ allergic. He never was. It was all a lie begun by his mother, perpetuated by his wife. And he let it happen because he’s never really known anything different. Finally he nods, “I haven’t had anything with milk in it for… years.” Not since he shared ice cream with Richie in the streets of Derry as teenagers. And even that was a rebellious act, only possible since his mother wasn’t breathing down his neck in that moment. Eddie shakes his head, clearing the memories. He leans back into his hands, changing the subject. “So, Richie, why is it you don’t write your own material?”

\--

Richie presses his lips together, then nods with a soft little smile as he looks over at him. “Alright, hold back on the alfredo for now. Don’t want your stomach freaking out over it when you’re still missing a solid twenty percent of your torso,” he says, shutting the fridge. He shifts closer to Eddie, then reaches to touch his cheek. “...We can get you used to it again. If you want,” he offers. Because he knows where that had started. Knew it had been Sonia who had begun this idea that Eddie couldn’t eat certain things and restricted him with so much.

He brushes his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip, then turns his attention back to his kitchen. “...I can make veloute if the butter doesn’t bother you?” he ends up asking, turning to lean his back against the counter and look at Eddie. Arms crossing over his chest. He’s...fuck, he’s so happy. Cooking for someone has always seemed ridiculously romantic, to him. Intimate. And it helps that he had fallen in love with cooking when he had started to learn.

“You don’t understand how excited I am. I haven’t cooked, really cooked, in...fuck, in years, Eds.” He smiles again, head tilting and knowing he looks too soft. “It just...I didn’t have it in me, y’know? I couldn’t make myself put in the effort just to sit alone at my table, in an empty and quiet house to eat it by myself. I seriously can’t wait to do this for you.” He pops off the counter again, gesturing to the kitchen. “If you’re cool with the veloute, it goes with chicken and I’m a fan of spaghetti. You good with zucchini? I’ve apparently got enough vegetables to last the month, good Ol’ Miss Dee doesn’t think I eat enough.”

He rambles, clearly avoiding the question. Only to sigh and deflate and rub his hands over his face. “It’s part of most of the contracts I get with venues and producers,” he admits after a moment. “And I don’t try to fight it because I’m too scared I’ll lose those jobs if I don’t comply. My manager insists it’s fine, but the shit they want me to say is….” he groans, rubbing under his glasses too harshly at his eyes.

\--

Eddie tries not to wince when Richie mentions his injury. Tries, probably fails at least 40% of the way. But Richie makes up for it with the soft way he touches him and the way he offers to help him remember how to eat food like he’s not terrified it will all kill him slow and painful. “Yeah, I think that would be good.”

Watching Richie devolve into this happy, excitable, rambling mess is beautiful. It reminds Eddie so much of their childhood. Of growing up in Derry, Maine with five other losers. Of Richie constantly talking about something, at least, whenever the silence hadn’t already been filled with Eddie’s own hypochondriac ramblings. He supposes, looking back, that it had always been for the benefit of the other. To get the attention of the other. Both of their loud mouths were just a cry for affection from the one person they wanted most.

And now Eddie is sitting in Richie’s kitchen, chin in his hand, watching the way he rambles about how excited he is to cook for him. He knows there’s a dumb smile plastered to his face, but he can’t help that. And why would he want to? Everything seems to finally be going right. Like some cosmic turtle righted the world now that It was dead.

It all changes when Richie rubs at his face with a heavy sigh, and Eddie once again regrets asking a question that seems to make Richie… unhappy. But he’s even more shocked by the answer. In an effort to brighten the mood, he shoots back with, “What, your show sucked so much that this was the better alternative? The show sucks, Rich.” By the time it’s out of his mouth, he’s already regretted it, but it’s out there now, and regretting his words is something he’s all too familiar with. “Sorry.” He sighs, “You shouldn’t let them walk all over you like that, you’re better than that.”

\--

Richie can’t help but burst out with a laugh at that. Because yeah, he knows the bits he’s being told to perform are shit. He knows they aren’t funny and they’re cringey at best and he hates them. He ends up shrugging a bit as his laughter dies down, not able to look at Eddie with sadness tainting the smile on his face. “I wouldn’t be getting the spots if I fight it,” he says. It sucks, a lot. The only time he really enjoyed what he was doing was the spots he got on SNL. Which were fun, ridiculous as they were. But his actual shows? His other television bits? They aren’t fun for him.

He sighs and shrugs, turning to start pulling things out of his cupboards. “I mean, I need a job, Spagheds. If I have to spout out someone else’s bullshit to get paid then it’s what I’ve got to do, y’know?” he says, as if it’s just a simple fact. And to him, it is. He doesn’t think he’s at all good enough to get away with fighting those conditions. He has a few conditions of his own, of course. Won’t do jokes that insult the lgbt community - which is a new one, even, after being told to say a joke that made him want to throw up - and he won’t make fun of trauma.

“So it’s chicken stock, butter, and flour. It tastes really good, I promise it isn’t as gross as it sounds,” he starts in, digging two chicken thighs out of the fridge. Easily bustling around his kitchen to gather up what he needs for dinner. “I add more flavor to it, though. Y’know, basil and oregano and usually rosemary. Always some garlic,” he muses, lips pressing together as he goes about the beginning stages of making dinner. Wanting to not linger on the fact that he has a career he loves but is being fucked by it so hard he doesn’t love it, anymore.

“...What are you going to do?” he asks, perhaps a bit suddenly. “Your job is back on the other side of the country. Are you going to find the same thing here in Cali?” He isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer, quite frankly. Because he knows Eddie hates that job and he doesn’t want the man he loves to fall right back into it.

\--

Eddie listens to Richie making excuses for himself and for the people putting him down. “Then get a better manager, do different shows. You deserve to do what _you_ want to do, not some stuck up corporate jagoff who clearly doesn’t know comedy if it bit him in the ass. You can easily get paid for own bullshit. I mean, you still aren’t funny, but I know there are people out there that would think you are.” Eddie offers him a smile as he insults him, showing he doesn’t really mean any of the bite in his words. At least not the ones directed toward Richie. He definitely meant the jagoff bit.

He wants to say something about being willing to shoulder the burden of money. Wants to make some bad joke about being his sugar daddy while he finds real work. But the words die on his tongue. It feels a little wrong, and very insensitive to say any of those things inside Richie’s home. Especially when he’s not… entirely sure what the terms of his staying here even are. He supposes they’re… together. That they’re living together, cohabitating, whatever. But Eddie doesn’t even know where he’s sleeping tonight. In Richie’s bed? In a guest room? On the couch? (Ok, he knows it won’t be that one, Richie would sooner take the couch than see Eddie sleep on it in his current state and they both know it.)

Eddie is knocked from his nearly panicked musings by Richie talking about food again. “Yeah, it sounds good. Very… Martha Stewart. Or Emeril. Or… Giada? I don’t know I don’t really watch the cooking channel.” He waves his hand as if dismissing his rambling train of thought. His mind is already returning to his prior concerns. At least, until Richie speaks again.

“Oh, well, uh. I talked to my boss, and he’s set it up so I can work remotely, temporarily. Not sure he believes I’m not going back to New York.” Or, at least, he doesn’t want to. He’s still not confident Richie won’t kick him out in a week when he finds out how infuriating he is to live with. “The firm has partners in the area, I could always transfer to one of their companies.” His voice trails off a bit at the end. “Maybe I’ll go to medical school…” It’s nearly a whisper. He doesn’t even realise he says it out loud, it’s more of a passing thought that he’s not even sure he really means.

\--

“You’d make a great doctor,” Richie muses, “or even a nurse. Oh, can I buy you a sexy nurse costume?” Richie asks, bright and teasing. Only to pause, that bright smile faltering slightly. Because...well. They haven’t talked about this yet. What they are, where they stand with one another. They have kissed more than once, and Richie has eagerly opened up his home to him, but they haven’t actually talked about it beyond admitting they love one another. And there was one point where Richie would have considered that it. They said they loved one another, they’re together.

But that’s not how the world works. Eddie is still legally married, despite having the divorce papers sent out to - and as of that morning, still ignored by - Myra. They are adults with lives the other knows little about and it’s all a lot more complicated than Richie wants it to be. He licks at his lips, keeping his attention on the chicken he’s preparing. He can do this, he can bring it up. He had been brave by telling Eddie he loves him, by kissing him the first time. He can do it again.

“Eds,” he starts, voice cracking, and he winces. He takes a deep breath, focusing on his hands and the meal he’s trying to cook. “...What are we?”

He swallows thickly, pausing in his movements because now there’s a broken dam and he can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I know I told you I love you. And you said you love me and I’ve kissed you way more times than I ever thought I’d get to but it’s so much more fucking complicated than it’s got any right to be because you’re still technically married and we’re not the same people we were as kids but it still feels like I know you better than I know myself and I dont know if that’s wishful thinking or not but you’re… fuck, Eds, I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you and I need a fucking label of some sort because I don’t know if I can do ‘roommates who kissed a few times’ or I might drop dead.” He gasps for breath when he finishes, realizing a moment too late he’s trembling.

\--

Eddie would hit Richie if he were closer at that sexy nurse costume comment. Instead, he opens his mouth to say something about Richie’s sister. Only Richie’s smile cracks and Eddie doesn’t have the heart to make the comment in the face of that change in expression. Instead, Eddie just watches him. He watches the way his mind cycles through whatever he’s thinking and the way his face echoes his emotions. It’s subtle, Richie has never been one to really openly emote unless it’s a joke. But Eddie can see it, and the longer he watches the more nervous he is about whatever the next thing out of Richie’s mouth is going to be.

For good reason. The way Richie says that nickname sounds almost broken. Fractured, for sure. And he’s not looking at Eddie, which is the scariest part of it all. At least until the question comes out of his mouth.

Eddie feels his throat constrict. His fingers tap at his pocket, expecting to feel and inhaler that isn’t there. _Because he doesn’t have asthma_. Still, he longs for the instantaneous feeling of his airways opening. Or even a vicodin tablet to quell the clutching pain in his chest. It takes him a moment of intense concentration to realise Richie has continued talking, rambling on about feelings, and his openness is terrifying.

He’s never been good at expressing emotion. Neither of them have been. They’re much better squabbling and throwing joking insults at one another. They’re even better at the weird joking flirting they’ve developed through the years. But stop either of them for two seconds and force some real, actual emotions? Eddie knows he’s terrible with it, and he’s pretty sure Richie is only marginally better.

Richie’s rambling has been over for a few moments now and they’re both just there, silently. Eddie’s heart is in his chest and his breath is shallow and he feels like he’s going to explode. But this is what he wanted, right? This is what he wanted to know, too. And Richie’s words are circling in his brain and he kind of just lands on ‘I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.’

Eddie stands up, walks up behind Richie, somehow still managing to prepare food through all of this. He hesitates only for a few moments before wrapping his arms around Richie’s middle and pressing his face into his back. “What kind of label do you want, Rich?” He nuzzles against Richie’s back again, “I love you and I don’t really care what you want to call it, but I’m here to stay if you’ll have me.” He sighs and turns his head, looking at nothing across the room. “Even if Myra never signs the papers, I’ll get the lawyer to work stuff out. It might take longer but that chapter is over. I’m all yours, Richie.”

\--

Richie inhales sharply when he suddenly feels arms wrapping around him. “Eds, you shouldn’t still be moving around so much-” he starts, reaching to wipe the chicken goop off his hands. He swallows, trying to keep from jostling Eddie too much, all he can think of is Eddie and whether or not he’s okay. He pauses, though, eyes wide. Oh. Oh, Eddie is… Eddie loves him. Eddie says he’s his and Richie’s brain stops working for a moment. He can’t wrap his brain around this, he can’t make himself quite believe it.

He takes a slow breath, then turns slowly in Eddie’s arms. He looks down at Eddie’s face, reaching a hand up to cup his face sweetly. It’s hard to look at him, which is stupid. Eddie has already told him that he loves him, that he wants to be here with him. It’s so fucking stupid to feel like he’s going to throw up from looking at his face. He hates it, wants to calm down a little bit, actually be able to handle this.

“Eds,” he swallows thickly again and takes another deep breath. He traces his fingers over Eddie’s face, just as reverent as his other touches to Eddie’s face had been. Like he’s a miracle come to life and really, it feels like that sometimes. “I can’t lose you again. I want you to stay here as long as possible. You’re… fuck, Eds, you’re everything.” He shakes his head, leaning close to bump their foreheads together. Resting there and just existing with him for a long moment.

\--

Of course, Richie’s first reaction would be to admonish him for moving. Eddie nearly sighs, “I’m _supposed_ to keep moving, Richie. I’m not trying to run a marathon or lift anything heavy.” Not that he dislikes Richie’s fawning over him, because he doesn’t. But he should at least be able to walk across the apartment to give Richie a hug without ripping his stitches or something.

None of that matters when Richie turns though. Eddie keeps his arms wrapped around him, hugging him. There’s something in the way Richie is looking at him that makes him feel like he should try to say something. But he doesn’t know what. So he just closes his eyes for a moment and leans into Richie’s hand.

“‘M not going anywhere, Richie. You’ll have to chase me out to get rid of me.” He smiles, opening his eyes again. “Although, I might have to reconsider if you burn my dinner. I’m hungry, Tozier, but hydrocarbons still cause cancer.” And, yeah, he may have cut a really sweet moment a little shorter than need be, but they’ve got time and he’s still not the most comfortable showing emotion. So, to make up for it, he presses a quick kiss to Richie’s lips before pulling away and going back to his seat where he can watch Richie work.

\--

Eddie shifts closer to kiss him and Richie melts. He holds onto Eddie’s face, dragging him closer to kiss him firmly. Desperately, like he’s terrified of this disappearing. He realizes a moment too late that there’s a tear slipping down his cheek and he tries to be subtle as he wipes it away, trying to keep from pulling out of the sweet kiss. How many times has he dreamed of this? How long has he been longing to have Eddie pressed against him like this?

“I love you,” he breathes out, nudging their noses together. “I love you, Eds. So fucking much I need you.” He takes a shaky breath, then brushes their lips together again. “Go sit back down, fuckface. You’ve got stitches still,” he ends up saying, brushing his knuckles over Eddie’s cheek. Then he carefully starts guiding him back over to the seat. “Need a drink before I get elbow deep in chicken again?” he ends up asking.

He’s already grabbing a glass, digging through the fridge. “Juice. Water. You already vetoed the milk. I am not giving you liquor until those wounds are closed up better because I’m not about thinning your blood out until it seeps out of you like a fucking maple tree on tap,” he muses absently.

He’s trying to get his breathing under control, trying to quell the weird panic building in his gut. Fuck. This is a lot. “...So am I allowed to call you my boyfriend, then?”

\--

Warmth blooms in Eddie’s body hearing Richie say he loves him. Even though he knows. Even though Richie says it at pretty much every opportunity. It still rocks him, still surprises him. And it definitely makes him smile way more than anyone as angry as him has any right to.

Even when he abruptly swaps from words of love to calling him fuckface. It’s still a term of endearment. Insults always have been between them. Richie calls him fuckface, Eddie calls Richie an asshole. It’s just how their love works.

Richie asks if he needs a drink and he immediately asks for rum, knowing the answer and knowing he can’t drink it anyway. Still, he enjoys the rambling explanation from Richie as to why he can’t. Eddie chuckles, “But orange juice sounds great if you have it. Water if you don’t.” He’s still smiling at Richie’s ass sticking out of the fridge when Richie asks about calling him _boyfriend_.

This horrific, amazing, beautiful warmth blooms all over Eddie’s body. His cheeks get hot and his hands feel a little sweaty. Because apparently the thought of calling Richie his _boyfriend_ affects him more than hearing the man say he loves him. How does that make sense? Eddie coughs into his hand, trying to buy himself a fraction of a second to think. It doesn’t work.

“Only if I’m allowed to call you mine.”

\--

Richie beams, absolutely beams. He can’t help it, he really can’t. Eddie is his boyfriend now. He is dating Eddie. This is a literal dream come true, he can only imagine how a younger him may have reacted. He had wanted this so badly even when he couldn’t remember who Eddie was and now he has it. He’s pouring juice into a glass for Eddie before he goes back to making a meal for him and it’s….it’s so fucking good. He puts the filled glass of orange juice onto the kitchen island in front of Eddie, leaning in to kiss him again.

“Fucking hell this the most amazing thing to ever happen to me, you fucker,” he says, still absolutely beaming. He lingers a long moment, then pushes away. “Alright, fuck, I’ve got food to cook. It’s going to be great, you’ll love it!” He nods, turning around to get back to the counter.

He stays quiet for a moment, working on the chicken. “...You think I could get away with saying no to the ghost writers?” he asks, after a long few moments. Not sure he believes he can do it. Not so sure he can actually afford to say no. And his manager certainly won’t let him. “...I’d need to find a new manager, too. Steve would never let me.” He sighs, shaking his head. Dammit. He licks at his lips, wiping his head before he drizzles olive oil into a pan so he can put the chicken on the stove. He keeps himself busy with cooking, knowing he’d probably break down if he doesn’t focus on his task.

\--

Richie’s reaction is worth it. The smile he wears is so entirely unguarded, truly happy. Eddie isn’t sure he’s ever seen him happy like that. Ever. In his life. Which makes him sad, because Richie deserves happiness. But it also makes him unreasonably happy since Eddie is the reason he looks so damn pleased. Eddie smiles himself, accepting the glass of juice and the kiss easily. Yeah, he can definitely get used to this.

“Careful, Rich, you’ll give me a big head. And I don’t think even this place is big enough for _two_ big heads.” He sucks down half the glass of juice, realising just how thirsty he had been. “It better be good, all you’ve done is raise my expectations.”

For a bit, there is quiet, save the sound of Richie’s food preparation. Eddie watches with his head resting in his hand once more, likely looking far more soft than he ever has in his life. It’s such a perfect moment that Eddie almost wants to yell at Richie for ruining it by talking. Except the words he says are… actually really important.

“Definitely. I still think he’s a jagoff, dump him, find someone that actually cares about you doing what you want to do. Like, you’re an annoying shit, but you can always get a laugh from a room. Just because _I_ don’t think you’re funny doesn’t mean the rest of the world doesn’t.” Emotions, Eddie. Work on those. Come on. “Seriously, though, you can do it, Rich.”

\--

Richie knows what Eddie is doing, of course he does. He and Eddie have never been this way with one another, it’s unusual to be so open and soft and vulnerable. They’ve had moments, of course. Late at night, sitting outside or in the bed of the old truck Richie had ended up with in his late teens. They would open up to one another and be honest then pretend it never happened. So these long strings of serious discussion since Eddie had woken up are a lot and Richie can’t really blame Eddie for falling back on their normal dynamic.

He puts butter into a small saucepan, watching it begin to melt for a moment before turning to pour out chicken stock into another pan. “...I hate the ghost writers,” he says, too quiet. “And fuck it, I hate Steve, too. He doesn’t give two shits about what I want to do with _my_ career.” He sighs shaking his head. It sucks. It really sucks but he has never really thought he had it in him to fight it. Too afraid, and he realizes suddenly that he has sort of always let people walk all over him.

“Fuck. I’ve got a meeting next week about the conditions for a show,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dammit. I can’t fire Steve yet. I don’t have time to find a better manager beforehand. What the fuck,” he huffs, shifting so he can take his aggression out on the zucchini he’s going to be cooking. Cutting them too harshly. “And he won’t let me talk about you, either. I mean, obviously I’d keep my mouth shut if you want me to but the point is why bother getting with the guy I’ve loved for literally my entire life if I have to stay so far in the closet I’m finding my kindergarten photos?”

\--

Eddie’s chest squeezes painfully hearing Richie complain like this. Hearing how dejected he sounds and how much he clearly hates the way his career has been thrust upon him in a way he doesn’t like. And it hurts to hear Richie say they won’t let him talk about Eddie, won’t let him be open about himself. He could make a difference in people’s lives! People still afraid to come out that look up to him as their favourite comedian or celebrity or whatever. Kids that for some reason are allowed to watch his show (Eddie definitely thinks they shouldn’t be allowed to, but he’s not their parents) could learn so much _good_ from Richie if he were allowed to just _be himself_.

“I don’t want you to keep your mouth shut. Not if you don’t want to. Hell, I want to shout it from the damn rooftops. Fire Steve. What does he even do for you? Can you do this meeting without him? What does your manager even do for these things?” Eddie picks at a flaw in the resin on the countertop. “I’d be a better manager than that asshat.” He doesn’t even know the man, but he has some strong opinions about him.

\--

Richie shrugs a bit, then shakes his head. “Steve handles contracts and the technical aspects of the conditions. I’m not famous enough to be taken seriously without a manager. Generally, no one would believe I know what I’m talking about and there’s plenty of things I _don’t_ understand about it. The contracts are literal legal contracts with weird wording to dictate what I can and can’t and have to do.” He waves a vague hand, mixing the butter around in the sauce pan before reaching into the cupboard for flour.

He stays silent for a long moment, then looks over his shoulder. “...You probably would be,” he admits, his brain filtering through that quickly. “You...if I fire Steve, would you help? Just for next week, just the one meeting until I find someone who’s not such a douche canoe?” Richie turns back to the stove, mostly so he won’t have to look at Eddie when he answers but also so he can keep an eye on their dinner.

“I mean, we both know you understand legalities, you obviously know how to understand what decisions will lead to what ends. And I only have that one meeting coming up. It’s a show up north a bit. Just one, I promise. I…” He winces, shrinking in on himself as his words get less and less convinced because why the fuck would Eddie want to be his manager? Even for one meeting. That being said, he isn’t exactly in his right mind since the bullshit with Derry. He’s slowly getting back to normal, of course, but he’s still...self conscious? Openly so, at least, as he has always kind of disliked himself. But since the whole murder clown situation, he’s been having a harder time hiding it.

\--

Eddie thinks the role of manager doesn’t really sound like all that much. It sounds like the biggest help is that having a manager somehow gives Richie more clout in the business. Legal bullshit and everything could be handled by anyone with legal knowledge. Otherwise, it’s probably just scheduling and getting a foot in the door, so experience is probably a big help. But there’s no way Richie can’t find a better manager.

And then Richie asks _him_ to help. Not that he doesn’t want to, he does. He desperately wants to help Richie reach the potential he _knows_ he’s capable of. And, sure, Eddie has the know how for legal documents, it’s close enough to what he does for a living. And he’s pretty good at talking to people, telling them what should and shouldn’t be, standing his ground over a position, as long as it isn’t for himself. And he cares more about Richie than anyone, so he’d definitely not have to worry about anyone not advocating for him.

“What the hell,” he says, surprising even himself, “I can probably manage one meeting. You’ll have to get all the documents ahead of time so I can look things over. And we’ll have to talk about what you want, what you’re willing to be flexible about, and what you aren’t.” The more he talks, the more he likes the idea. “Yeah, yeah I can do that.”

\--

If Richie is being honest, he hadn’t actually expected Eddie agree. He knows Eddie will be amazing, of course. He has always been better at standing up for others than for himself, but that can be said about any of the Losers club. He blinks a few times, needing a moment to process what Eddie had said. Then he beams. “You’d really be willing?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at him. He nods a bit, then leans over his pots and pans to check everything. He mixes the butter again, making sure it’s separating but not browning, then steps away.

He opens up the top drawer and grabs a small bundle of papers. Then he turns to drop it on the counter. “I’m not going to ask you to go through it right this second. We just spent four hours on a plane and haven’t eaten real food in like twelve hours. But this is the bullshittery they sent me,” he says, shrugging a bit. He pauses, then his smile softens. “...You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” he says.

And then he’s returning to the stove, dumping flour into the butter and flipping the chicken over so it can cook on the other side, too. He’s busy pulling another pot from the cabinet when he lets out a little chuckle. Not because of anything overly _funny_ but because all of this is so fucking far off from what his life had been even a month and a half ago. He’s dating the boy he’d fallen in love with as a kid, he’s moderately famous and about to fire his manager. The killer clown that has been haunting his nightmares in subtle ways for thirty years is dead and he doesn’t feel painfully empty.

“This is kind of fucking insane,” he says as he straightens back up. “What are the chances I can convince you to wear a suit to that meeting? Do you think you’ll be healed up enough for that because I’m already drooling over the mental imagery here. Fuck, I bet you’re really sexy in a suit. Gaping abdomen wound and all.” He grins, head tilting slightly as he looks at Eddie.

\--

Eddie smiles when Richie does, it’s so easy to be happy if he’s happy. “Yeah, I want to help.” Moments later, Richie is dropping a fat stack of papers on the counter near him. It’s… a lot, considering it’s just one meeting for one show. But that’s entertainment, he supposes. Richie tells him he doesn’t have to do it now, but he does at least flick through a few of the papers. Most of them seem to be part of a really long contract. “I’ll probably go over this tonight. Or at least start to, it’s going to take a while.”

Eddie’s entire face heats up at Richie’s next words though. ‘Kind of amazing.’ “Shut up,” he can’t even come up with an adequate name to call him. “You’re the amazing one.” And Richie is back cooking before Eddie can blink, so he starts reading the papers just for something to do while he waits. At least until he hears Richie’s kind of insane little chuckle. Kind of insane, but also kind of cute. Eddie looks at him then, focusing on him bent down to get something out of a cabinet. He definitely takes the opportunity to admire his ass, as well.

“You know, I was going to say ‘yes, of course I’ll wear a suit to this formal meeting with the people you have to discuss terms for a show with’ and then you said that and now I want to show up in sweatpants and a t-shirt,” he mocks with a sardonic grin. Still, he can’t deny his own mental drooling at the thought of /Richie/ in a suit. An actual suit, like they might have worn for prom if they had gone instead of ditching to hang out in the bed of Richie’s old truck.

And that thought brings back a slew of almosts and could have beens from years gone that the force of them almost physically pushes Eddie back. It’s been a long time and he’s finally here. With Richie. “But, yes, I’ll wear a suit. And so will you. But you better keep your hands _and those fuck me eyes_ to yourself.”

\--

“But I _do_ want you to fuck me,” Richie blurts out in another one of his infamous cases of lack of filter. Just spouting whatever thought pops into his head when it happens without thinking about it. And it immediately shoots a white hot spark of desire down his spine. Because he had never thought about it, really. Of course, his vague sexual fantasies have been of men since he was a young teen, but he had never really thought about getting fucked. As if scared that wanting to bottom would make him _too_ gay. Which is stupid, he knows, but it had been in the back of his mind every time. Even the few anonymous encounters, going home with some guy from a club, he had always topped.

But he can’t deny that he wants it. The image is vivid in his head, Eddie bending him over whatever surface is available. Holding him down, kissing across his shoulders as he fucks him. Being stretched around his cock, hair pulled and bruises on his hips. He wants Eddie to _dominate_ him, especially because he knows Eddie would never take advantage of that position. Richie wants it so bad he can taste it, and if not for the still fresh wound to Eddie’s abdomen, Richie would already be on his knees begging for it.

He swallows thickly, mouth suddenly dry, and turns to the sink to fill up the pot with water. His knees feel a little weak, now, and he wonders if Eddie would be offended if he got off in the shower later. Not that he has to tell him, of course. Though something about that feels too much like the years he spent hiding and it kind of makes him feel sick.

“Fucking hell I said that out loud,” he ends up saying, once again demonstrating his lack of filter. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that kind of shit out loud. Kind of felt good. Would be better if you weren’t still half dead and could follow through, but hey. You’re not fully dead at least? Had me pretty fucking scared you were going to be one hundred percent dead for a while there, it was fucking awful, Beddie Boop.”

\--

Eddie chokes on his orange juice. Little droplets of sticky citrus dot the countertop in front of him and a few bits get on the papers he’s been reading. Richie sure did… he sure said that. It wasn’t Eddie’s imagination. It wasn’t some crazy, pain induced auditory hallucination in Eddie’s head. That was. That was real.

And it has Eddie’s brain spinning. He had been _joking_ but he can’t even begin to deny that the thought doesn’t make him warm with desire. And fear. But mostly desire. Richie is… he’s beautiful. And Eddie knows he loves him, he’s said it plenty. And they’ve kissed, and Eddie really likes kissing Richie. But they haven’t even come close to even mentioning _that_. And then here’s Richie, saying something like that like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world.

It’s not like it’s something they even _can_ explore, right now. For one, Eddie is still on semi bed rest. The doctor even (very embarrassingly, with Richie right there in the room) told him he’d need to wait a few weeks before resuming sexual activity. Nice of him to assume there was anything to resume, he supposes. And there’s also that pesky divorce issue. Because it isn’t _technically_ infidelity since the papers have been served and Myra is just being difficult and they are separated. But Eddie still feels like he’d rather wait to take a step like that until that isn’t hanging over their heads, until there are no potential threads to get in the way.

Eddie still hasn’t responded and Richie starts talking again, rambling. But not taking it back. Owning it, actually. Which makes an odd bloom of warmth spread through his body. Something like pride. He’s proud of Richie. Eddie wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, looking around for a paper towel to clean up after the mess he made. “Yeah, imagine being the one with the creepy killer clown spike through your fucking chest. Fucking awful doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He feels like he should say something about the earlier comment. Something like… ‘yeah, that sounds good,’ or ‘wow, Richie, moving a little fast but I’m here for it.’ But all of those things sound hollow and, frankly, weird. And the moment is passed, so he lets it.

\--

Richie snorts a little laugh, nodding. “Alright, valid. Being the one impaled is, arguably, the worst of these two options.” He agrees, grinning. He finishes up with cutting the zucchini, then turns back to Eddie. He keeps grinning at him. “I’m… kind of thinking about this way too much now. Oh my god when did your doctor say you could fuck, again?” he asks, brows furrowing as his head tilts.

Because, really, as badly as he wants it, he refuses to go further than is safe for Eddie. He won’t risk losing him again, which is kind of a funny way to think about it. Death by sex. What a hell of a way to go. But, the point still stands, he will wait as long as needed if it means they aren’t going to agitate Eddie’s healing wounds. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Eds, I’m really feeling this domestic shit. I haven’t cooked someone else dinner in… fuck, literal years.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

He looks down after a moment, smile softening. “...D’you remember when we were kids? I would climb in through your window because your mom locked you inside the house when she left?” His nose scrunches at that, but he carries on. “And we’d cook for ourselves and it was never bad but it was always this weird mix of your healthy food and me wanting macaroni and cheese or some shit. I’d have a fucking bag of food to cook?” He smiles a little wider. Looking up at Eddie again, arms crossing over his chest.

“Hard to believe anything could have made me forget all that. Best fucking nights of my life were with you and I spent… what, twenty something years not remembering any of it?”

\--

Without really thinking about the implications, due to having started reading the documents again, Eddie answers automatically, “The doctor said four weeks before resuming normal sexual activity.” By the time his brain catches up with his mouth, Eddie’s face is bright red. He glances up toward Richie to find him looking back, head tilted, looking just like a puppy. Fuck, he’s cute. And thank god he’s unable to keep a quiet moment longer than a few seconds, because he’s already talking again and it gives Eddie something to latch on to _other_ than their potential sex life. Which he wants but he’s… very much not prepared for.

“Mom only ever kept bland, healthy food in the house. It was always stuff like brussel sprouts and rice and hummus if she was feeling particularly adventurous. No gluten, dairy, tree nuts, eggs, soy, basically any of the common allergens. It’ll be… interesting to try eating all of those things now. It’s been… years.” Eddie offers a wry smile toward Richie at the memories of their childhood mishaps.

“I can’t believe I ever forgot it. I can’t believe I ever forgot _you_. Someone could have told me your name and I would have said something like, ‘oh yeah, Richie Tozier, I went to school with him back in Maine’ but I wouldn’t have _remembered_ you. And I hate that. I hate knowing I spent so long without the memories of how much you meant to me.” Eddie plays with the corner of the stack of papers. “At least we have it all now. I remember you now.”

A sudden nostalgia washes over him, “You snuck into my window a lot when we were kids. Remember that time my mom almost caught you? You fell through, crashing so loudly. You had to hide under my bed when she came to check on me, making sure I hadn’t hurt myself. I could hear you snickering and I couldn’t believe she didn’t.”

\--

Richie can’t help but grin at Eddie’s easy, analytical response due to being distracted. He’s busy reading through the contract again and Richie isn’t at all surprised that Eddie had automatically responded without thinking. And the blush on his face is pretty great too. And then they move right on to their memories and Richie nods slowly. “Yeah. It was… kind of fucking awful. Felt empty, y’know?” He sighs, glancing over his shoulder at the stove.

He turns, working on the flour and butter mixture so he’ll be able to put it into the chicken stock. He lets out a bark of laughter, nodding. “Yeah, it had rained that day and my foot slipped. I don’t know how she didn’t hear me, either. It was so dumb some of the shit she would say to you.” He rolls his eyes, still grinning.

“And then the one time you snuck out. You had never gone out the window before. I remember catching you when you fell the last few feet.” Richie swallows thickly. “...I didn’t want to let you go,” he admits, too quietly. Moving on from the sauce to the zucchini. He licks at his lips, taking a slow breath. “And you demanded my sweater and I couldn’t fucking breathe, Eds. You… have no idea what you did to me.” He chews at his bottom lip, then glances over his shoulder again.

“The bridge,” he blurts out, suddenly, and he winces. “...You know the one, everyone called it the Kissing Bridge.”

\--

It’s nice, walking down the proverbial memory lane with Richie. It’s easy, it’s simple, but it feels almost like regressing in a way. Still, they can focus on making new memories… later. For now, it’s nice to exist in their memories, especially since it’s really all they have outside of a stressful day and a half fighting a killer clown.

“I was _convinced_ I was going to die that night.” He pauses, smiling at the memory, “I didn’t want you to let go either. That’s why I asked for your sweater. It made me feel like you were still holding me.”

Eddie ruminates. Derry was not the best place to grow up when it comes to open mindedness. Especially not for Eddie under the rule of law that was his mother. She had a lot of rules, and while most of them centered on his health, a lot just had to do with her fear that he was going to get hurt. He loved his mother, but he also despised her. He knows he has a lot of residual problems left behind from the way she raised him, and it only got worse when he married Myra.

Richie’s sudden exclamation jolts him back to the present. “The Kissing Bridge? What about it?”

\--

Richie isn’t sure why he’s so nervous. Why the idea of telling Eddie about the bridge makes his stomach twist and turn like this. They’re together, now. Eddie said he loves him, they have kissed a fair amount of times. Logically, there’s no reason to be so freaked out by all of this. It’s probably left over panic, he knows that. Self hatred and fear he hasn’t quite learned to let go of, yet. But that doesn’t make it feel any less stupid.

He swallows thickly, working on their dinner. Mostly mixing things unnecessarily so he doesn’t need to look at Eddie. “...I carved our initials into it,” he answers after a long moment.

And then, because his panic has always made his mouth work without his permission, he shakes his head and keeps going. “The summer we faced It the first time. And your mom wasn’t letting you see any of us and I fucking… missed you so much it hurt. Before I started sneaking over, it was… what, just a week? Just seven or eight days without you and it felt like everything was falling apart. So I sat there and carved our initials into the bridge. I don’t even really know why. And I was scared, too, because the fuck was I going to do if someone came by and saw me? How was I supposed to explain it in a way that didn’t end in my ass getting kicked?”

Richie inhales slowly to try and ease to storm in his stomach, then shrugs. “So yeah. You’ve been it for me for a while, Eds,” he ends with, and suddenly that unease fades. As if saying it somehow made the nerves better. Like having it out in the open was all he needed to feel okay about it. And he knows he still has a long way to go, a few days doesn’t erase a lifetime of fear and self loathing. But it’s certainly a start.

\--

Eddie can’t breathe. He actually can’t draw in a breath. This is one of those moments again, one of those times when he used to think he was having an asthma attack but really it was more often than not just anxiety. Maybe he should see someone about that. Later. Right now, he needs to focus on forcing his chest to rise and draw in life giving oxygen.

He knows the spot.

Not just the Kissing Bridge, because everyone knows the Kissing Bridge in Derry. Everyone knows it and its stretch of carved graffiti that the local police could never seem to effectively curtail. But Eddie knows _that spot_. The spot that says R + E on the wooden plank. He’d found it when he had walked by one day late spring after that fateful summer. He’d passed by, caught the newer carving in the corner of his eye. And he had wondered.

He remembers it as if he were there. He remembers shaking his head, telling himself it was most certainly some other pair of lovestruck fools that just happened to share the initials of he and his best friend. Derry is a small town, but it could have been anyone. It wasn’t like R and E were uncommon initials.

But now, to hear Richie admit to making the carving, admit to the fact that E had actually been for him. It sends him spiraling into this panic and he just can’t _breathe_. He makes a fist and slams it against his chest, finally shocking himself into drawing a breath before his lips turn blue. He sits there a moment, just sucking in air before looking at Richie. “I saw it. I assumed it was someone else, but I always hoped… Or thought, or- I don’t know. I’ve loved you since we were twelve. But I already told you that.” And he just marvels in the fact that he can even remember that moment, even though he doesn’t believe he could ever forget.

\--

Richie hears the noise of Eddie smacking himself in the chest - and he hates that, because he’s damaged and there’s no need to hit himself like that, dammit! - and he whirls around to face him. He shakes his head, crossing the kitchen to reach for Eddie’s face. He leans down to brush their lips together, soft and sweet. “Hey, you’re okay,” he insists, touching his cheek sweetly, thumb brushing over his cheek bones lovingly.

“It was...a whim, I guess. I don’t know why I did it but you were...my everything, even then.” He smiles softly, still touching him gently. The same way he used to help him when he panicked. When he would have his ‘asthma’ attacks, trying to keep him calm to keep him having a full on breakdown. Holding him sweetly, talking to him. “Don’t fall apart on me, handsome, I’m the one who carved our initials into a bridge like a lovesick nutcase.”

He grins again. “You know, it’s kind of creepy isn’t it? I’m a freak it’s not like we were together. Fucking hell, I carved our initials into a bridge and I had no intention of ever telling you how I felt how creepy is that? Oh my god how possessive that’s some real serial killer vibes, man. I can’t have you no one can kind of shit holy fuck. I might end up killing you. Crime of passion, they’ll say. Voluntary manslaughter if I play my cards right.” His grin widens, head tilting.

\--

Richie’s voice has always been able to calm Eddie down. From a simple overexcitement to a full blown panic attack, Richie has always been the best one. Best at calming him, best at grounding him, just the best.

His dumb jokes and the words he uses and it’s just so decidedly _Richie_. Even when Eddie wants to yell at him for implying he was creepy for expressing himself in the only way a kid in Derry could think to do. Still, it ends on a joke, and Eddie can see it doesn’t really mean anything. At least, he hopes not.

“I wanted to. I wanted to do it, too, but I was too scared. I was too worried someone would know, someone would see. I was too scared that _you_ would see. And laugh. Not even brave enough to write some anonymous initials in some wood on some bridge in some small town in Maine…” he sighs, looking up at Richie and smiling. Because none of that matters now.

“If you kill me, I have a note hidden that says if I die that it was definitely you. First degree, Rich. You’ll be in prison for life.” Eddie grins before kissing his _boyfriend_. “Go finish the food, I’m starved.”

\--

Richie can’t help but grin, still holding Eddie’s face like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He _is_ the most precious thing in the world, though he supposes that’s a matter of opinion. “I’m considered mildly famous, I’ll get twenty-five,” he adds, leaning in to nudge their noses together sweetly. A juvenile gesture that he wants to do over and over again. He lingers there a moment, giving himself those few seconds to bask in the feeling of being so close to Eddie.

“Bright side, I’ll never be anyone’s bitch in prison,” he adds when he pulls back, grinning even more widely. “I helped kill that child eating clown. I won’t be scared of anyone.” He chuckles, kissing Eddie once more before turning to go back to the food.

“Seriously, I could model strut my way through that prison and just bitch slap any motherfucker who thinks I’m an easy target,” he muses, bustling around by the stove. Pouring the spaghetti into the boiling water and mixing the veloute. “That would be the funniest shit, Eds, I can _picture_ it.” He snorts a little laugh, the type of laugh he had always hated when he was a kid. Even now, on instinct his hand comes up to cover his mouth.

“Bunk me with some monster of a man with neck tattoos named Bub and I’m gonna waltz on past him to the bed I want. Do the hand thing, you know the hand thing?” He does that gay stereotype limp wrist thing before returning to cooking. “And when he tries to fuck me up I’ll just laugh in his face. They won’t fucking know what to do with me, Eds. Your ghost will be so proud.”

He hums another laugh, but the more he thinks about the comment, the more his nerves bubble up again. On the topic of bunking and roommates, where does Eddie plan on sleeping? Richie has a guest room, but he kind of wants to share his bed with Eddie. On the other hand, he would never try to push Eddie and the whole ‘not divorced yet’ could very well be a hang up he has. Richie licks at his lips, then glances over his shoulder at Eddie. “...On the topic of bunking…” he starts, wincing when he can't make himself sound natural.

\--

Eddie can’t help but grin at Richie’s wild imagination of his experience as a Not prison bitch. Mostly because the thought of Richie being anywhere near a prison is, frankly, hilarious. He definitely has his moments, and yeah, they faced down the killer clown monster, but Richie is hardly ‘hardcore.’ But he has to laugh at Richie’s whole ‘hand thing’ fantasy. It’s things like this, these stupid little stories he comes up with that are filled with wild fantasies, that prove he should be writing his own material.

“My ghost would be rolling his fucking eyes at your ridiculousness. You won’t get 25 because you’re famous, you’ll get out early because not even the prison wants to deal with you.” He’s soft though, still smiling at that little snort Richie made, feeling like the luckiest damn man in the whole entire world. Richie motherfucking Tozier loves him. Richie motherfucking Tozier is making him dinner. He gets to _kiss_ Richie _motherfucking_ Tozier whenever he wants! His head spins with the knowledge of it.

Richie’s mood seems to fall quite quickly though. Fall isn’t the right word, but it changes. It isn’t as bright and happy, becomes more subdued. Nervous. All immediately explained when Richie speaks again, starting a question he doesn’t seem able to finish. But Eddie understands. It’s a question he’s wanted an answer to himself, as well. Something they haven’t had to deal with yet, with Eddie stuck in a hospital bed up until then.

Eddie’s eyes widen a bit, trying to come up with a responsible, adult reponse. But all his brain comes up with is some strange animal noises. “Well, it’s… it’s your house, so…” Fuck. This is going poorly. Complete sentences, Eddie. “I don’t want to impose….”

\--

Richie swallows thickly, and he lets out a little burst of laughter. Not a humorous noise, more of a nervous exhale of air from his lungs. Vaguely panicked, nervous. Almost relieved. He shakes his head, digging a strainer out of his cupboard and placing it in the sink. He licks at his lips, trying to filter through the information he has. The tone Eddie uses, what he says and how he says it. Then he turns to face him.

“...It’s not imposing, Eds,” he says softly. “I...fuck. Okay hold on.” He shakes his head, rubbing his hands up over his face, under his glasses. Trying to give himself a moment to gather his thoughts, figure out what the fuck he wants to say before he starts rambling and spouting nonesense. It should be easy, really, to tell Eddie that he wants to sleep in the same bed as him. But for some reason, he can’t get the words out.

“I like being next to you,” he ends up saying, and his face scrunches up in an admittedly comical way. As if he hadn’t at all planned on saying that but it’s what came out anyway. Which is kind of how he feels. He shakes his head again, taking a slow breath. “If you want to, I would like to share my room,” he says, slowly. Pointedly. Like if he doesn’t focus on the words then he’ll end up blurting something else out. He forces his eyes open - not entirely sure when he had closed them to begin with - and makes himself look at Eddie.

“Shouldn’t be this fucking hard to say it,” he says, a little humorless smirk twitching at his lips.

\--

All the air rushes out of Eddie all at once when he sees the way Richie reacts to his non answer. It’s not a panic attack, but it’s the next best thing. His heart hurts. Still, he lets Richie speak because he can’t think of anything to say himself and he’s honestly intensely curious as to what is going to come out of Richie’s mouth.

Richie’s face scrunches up in that way it does when he’s trying to find the right words to use. It’s cute, but Eddie is too nervous about what he’s going to say to really appreciate it. And he can’t focus on anything but the words when they start coming. They mean the world to Eddie, in that deadly simple way something can.

He finishes off by finally looking at Eddie and saying it shouldn’t be so hard to say. And, yeah, it shouldn’t. But Eddie has no room to complain, stuck in the same boat. They’re new at this. To loving caring relationships, to relationships with men, to all of this. Eddie feels a smile stretch on his lips. He really hopes Richie is at a pausing point in his cooking because he motions for the man to come closer. “I would love to,” he says quietly. There’s probably a joke to be made, but he’s pretty sure Richie is fragile enough in this moment and they’ve got the rest of their lives to make dumb jokes. This is one of those big, important moments. “Now, you better come here and kiss me.”

\--

Richie can’t help but start to relax. The softness of Eddie’s face, knowing he’s okay with this. It makes his chest start to loosen up a bit, makes his heart rate slow back down. He offers a gentle little smile, watching Eddie speak. It shouldn’t be so difficult, he knows that, but it’s going to keep getting easier. He doesn’t really want to wait for that, but it’s certainly a long way from when he was thirteen and terrified of looking at Eddie for too long.

His little smile grows into a grin and he nods. He glances over at the food, making sure he can spare a minute or two, then makes his way across the kitchen to get to Eddie again. He cups his face once more, and he can definitely get used to this. Eddie’s cheek fits into his hand so perfectly, like they’re made for this. Made to belong to one another and Richie can’t deny he loves the thought of that. He belongs to Eddie, he always has and always will.

He leans in again, kissing Eddie sweetly. Firm, but loving. Slow and steady and everything Richie has ever wanted. He lingers there a long few moments, then pulls back with a contented sigh. “I love you,” he says, voice cracking slightly towards the end. “Fucking hell, Eds, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me,” he continues, offering a little smile. “Including that time I won a free coffee from Dunkin Donuts, but that’s a close second,” he adds, smile morphing into a grin.

And then he turns back to the stove. Checking the pasta, then shifting around to pour it in the strainer. “This should be pretty easy on your stomach after way too long with the tubes in your nose feeding you,” he says. “It’s mostly chicken stock.” He gestures to the sauce as he grabs two plates.

\--

The thoughtfulness Richie has toward him will always astonish Eddie. He’s always known that Richie is a thoughtful person, even if most people didn’t really see it, never getting passed his hyperactive and sometimes annoying personality. But it never occurred to him just _how_ thoughtful. And it always shocks Eddie when it’s directed toward him.

Eddie has barely eaten anything since he woke up, only having his NG tube removed a few days before he was released. And then they flew back here nearly immediately. His actual meal items have pretty much consisted of hospital pudding and jello and some liquid meal replacement. He’s ready for some real food, but he’s glad Richie is aware that his stomach might revolt after that. Not to mention his self-inflicted food avoidance for most of his life.

He grins, “Thanks, Rich. I really appreciate all of this.” He lets Richie make him up a plate of the pasta and sauce. Once the plate is placed in front of him and Richie takes his own seat across from him, they start eating.

“Holy shit, Richie. This is really good. Like, _really_ good.”

\--

Richie fills up their plates, giving Eddie less then he might normally. Even if Eddie is starving, Richie knows enough to know that such an intense wound would cut his appetite a bit. He settles down across from Eddie, smiling at him. Instead of eating, though, he sits and watches Eddie. Anticipating, waiting to see how he reacts. Excited but a little nervous.

And then Eddie says it’s good and Richie absolutely beams. His face lights up and he feels his neck flush pleasantly. It’s amazing, so great to know Eddie likes the food he had cooked for him. Richie has always loved the validation that comes from people complimenting a meal. It just...doesn’t happen often. And the older he gets, the less often it happens. But now? Maybe he’ll be hearing it all the time. He likes the idea of that, cooking dinner for him and Eddie every night. At least on nights he’s home.

“What, were you surprised?” he asks, finally digging into his own food. “I told you I’m a good cook. Didja think I was lying? Eds, I’m offended.” He shakes his head with a little grin. He puts his fork down, reaching to touch Eddie’s face. Soft and sweet.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, y’know that?” he asks softly, his big beaming smile softening.

\--

“I am surprised, actually. I was convinced you were going to poison me. Bring me all the way back home after a deadly injury and long hospital stay just to make me complacent to do the deed yourself.” Eddie’s grin proves his words hold no actual malice. He looks down, just to try to escape the intensity of Richie’s gaze for a minute. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but he’s… not used to it at all quite yet. Not sure he ever will be, entirely.

The touch to his face brings his eyes back up to face Richie. The look of pure, unadulterated love there slams into him once again. Nope, he’s never getting used to that look, this feeling. “You’re pretty pretty yourself, did _you_ know _that_?” Eddie knows Richie doesn’t think particularly highly of himself. He knows he plays himself down and self depreciates like it’s a bulletproof vest. But Eddie really does think he’s so beautiful. Especially with that dopey, lovey smile he gets when he looks at Eddie for any length of time.

“Thank you, Richie. For everything. For being there, for staying with me, for being honest with me and yourself, for bringing me here, letting me stay, making me dinner, just. Thank you. You’re amazing.”

\--

\--

Richie is always a little nervous before going on stage. Especially when he doesn’t have a script. At least when he’s performing, he has a script to follow. He has time to figure out what he’s saying and knows people will at least be amused by it. But talk shows? Interviews like this? They make him nervous. He relaxes the longer he’s out there, of course, but they always make anxiety swirl in his gut. However, having Eddie there with him helps him relax a bit.

Though, considering what he’s about to announce, that calming effect only brings him back down to his usual anxiety levels for these things.

He licks at his lips, listening as he’s announced. By the time he’s stepping onto the stage, he’s waving and smiling like he isn’t the least bit nervous. He’s sure Eddie can see it in his face, of course, but no one else is going to. He smiles too brightly, waves too easily. His posture too relaxed, his voice too easy going. He looks like a natural, being the center of attention, but it terrifies him. Despite how badly he craves it, it also frightens him because being in the limelight means he can do something wrong and push everyone away. Can make the world leave him behind.

He shakes the host’s hand before he plops himself down on the couch. He chuckles, feeling an intense surge of excitement at the way the audience cheers for him. It always feels nice, makes his chest tighten up pleasantly even with the anxiety in him. “Hey!” he greets, waving again. “Wow, that’s a lot of excitement. Did they think you were bringing John Mulaney out? Have they got me confused with someone else?” he asks, brows furrowing before looking at the host. “I’ve met John once and he was the funniest bastard I’ve ever met, think he might call me up and invite me to do something if I talk him up enough?” he asks, grinning.

\--

Eddie sits in the wings of the studio, watching his incredibly brave boyfriend go and step out onto the set in order to do possibly the bravest thing he’s ever done. His anxiety is eating at the edges of his being, but he’s keeping a handle on it. It isn’t anxiety for himself, it’s anxiety for the big thing Richie is about to do. Anxiety for how Richie feels, for how big this is going to be and how it could wind up getting him a lot of backlash.

He watches from the sidelines as the host stands to shake Richie’s hand, greeting him with a generous hello. He watches as Richie immediately launches into his nervous rambling that probably comes across to most people as a funny joke, but Eddie knows. Eddie can see the tightness in Richie’s face and the way he’s rubbing his palms against his knees ever so slightly.

“Maybe we should get him on the phone?” the host replies to Richie’s mania about John Mulaney, turning to the camera. “Hear that John, Rich Tozier wants to do something with you. You should get on that!” He chuckles in that practiced, almost disingenuous way talk show hosts do before turning back toward Richie. “So, we’ve all heard the rumours that you’ve made some staff changes in your tour. Any truth to that?”

Eddie bites the inside of his lip. He’s lucky he’s still technically Richie’s acting manager or he wouldn’t even be here.

\--

Richie’s eyes widen comically. “Absolutely not! I am not physically or emotionally prepared to talk to him!” he demands. “Are you kidding me that’s like throwing a kid who starred in his high school play at Robert Downey Jr. like ‘here, kid, try to hold your own, good luck.’” He gestures as if tossing something, shaking his head. “Asking me to talk to John Mulaney. Crazy,” he huffs, chuckling at the way the audience laughs.

Then the host dives right into the questions and Richie nods, taking a deep breath to keep his cool. “Yeah, yeah some big changes, actually,” he confirms, thumb coming up to brush just under his nose. A small nervous habit of his. “I mean, I had ghostwriters for a lot of my shows and I finally got sick of that shi-” He coughs, wincing as he catches himself before swearing. The crowd chuckles and he makes a dramatically sheepish face before turning back to the host.

“Got sick of it,” he corrects, nodding. “And I fired my manager,” he adds, brows furrowing. He inhales slowly again. Right. Okay. He can do this, dammit. He isn’t in a small town in Maine, he had fought a killer clown, he can handle this.

“So, I have a temporary manager,” he continues, sounding normal as ever, to everyone except the Losers who he knows are watching. “And uh… probably important to point out that he’s my boyfriend, huh?”

\--

The host nods along thoughtfully, actively listening or something. Right up until Richie drops the bomb. The whole point of this interview. The point that no one except Eddie and Richie knew was coming.

The whole studio falls so quiet Eddie swears he could hear a pin drop. His own breathing feels too loud. Richie looks terrified and Eddie wants nothing more than to run to him and hug and kiss him and just say how proud he is of him for doing this incredibly scary and brave thing. For being so vulnerable like this.

But he can’t. And after a moment that feels like hours but can’t actually be more than a few seconds, only a slightly pregnant pause, the host starts speaking. “Boyfriend, eh? What happened to the girlfriend you always went on about?” The host seems to be scrambling just a bit, thrown for a loop. But he’s covering well, bringing the show back on track. “What’s it like working with a significant other in a role such as that?”

\--

For a long moment - one that feels so, so much longer than it actually is. - Richie sits in silence. Stomach twisted up so bad he’s worried he’ll need to rush off stage to throw up. And then, there’s clapping and cheering from the crowd and the host scrambles to keep his composure and Richie feels his body start to relax. He still feels a little sick, of course, but this is… okay. He can handle this. This is alright, this isn’t awful. He nods a bit, scratching at his cheek before shrugging.

“She didn’t exist?” he offers. “I told you, ghostwriters. Who weren’t funny, might I add. Like… cringey. So cringey. I hated it.” He shudders, over the top and theatrical.

And then he starts beaming. Talking about Eddie is always good, he always likes this. He could spend literal hours talking about Eddie. “It’s kind of like when we were still in school and teachers were dumb enough to let us choose partners for group projects?” he says, gesturing vaguely, “Because I don’t like getting yelled at but Eddie will stand toe to toe with someone and call them a moron? He’s a small condensed ball of rage, like a chihuahua with abs.” He holds his hands up as if holding something small. “Like I don’t like conflict, which is weird considering I’ve been in a fair amount of fights due to my mouth, but Eddie? Hoo boy, that man will pick a fight because he’s bored.” He grins, head tilting.

\--

Eddie grins when Richie starts falling into a more comfortable rhythm. It’s clear how hearing the positive reaction to his statement is setting him at ease, letting himself get comfortable again. He’s so damn proud of him.

And then Richie starts talking about him. His descriptions are… something, that’s for sure. A chihuahua? Really? But the way Richie’s eyes light up and the obvious affection he has in his voice for Eddie makes him smile softly. Even when Richie accuses him of picking a fight at anything.

The host laughs a genuine, full body laugh. “So are you showing this guy off, or do fans have to scour for any information on this guy? How did you meet, how long have you been dating?” Eddie shakes his head, those questions should be… interesting to hear how Richie answers them. _Oh we were childhood friends, forgot each other for thirty years, killed a clown monster together, then confessed while he was lying in a hospital bed after being impaled._ Yeah, that would go over well. Eddie smirks, it would be funny to try and say the truth, just to see the reaction.

\--

Richie laughs and shakes his head. “I am always down to talk about him I assure you,” he says, and there’s a surprising burst of cheers at that. He offers another grin, brushing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, we grew up together,” he says, and there’s a collective ‘aww’ from the crowd. Richie laughs, holding a hand up. “Oh no, it’s not an ‘aww’, we were hell,” he says, and there’s a laugh.

He turns to the camera, clasping his hands in front of him. “Mrs. Blites, if you’re listening I am _so_ sorry you are a lovely teacher and we were awful.” He pauses. “Also, the half and half split on doing homework was Eddie’s idea,” he adds quickly, despite it not being true.

“We used to take our homework and I took odds, he took evens and we’d switch our papers after. Never identical enough to actually get caught but enough for the teachers to be suspicious,” he explains, grinning. “Then we’d spend the rest of class screwing around.”

This is… amazing. It feels so good to talk about Eddie like this and the warm acceptance from the audience is enough to make Richie even more excited, even more eager to keep talking. “But yeah back to your original set of questions, we uh...we sort of lost contact for a while. Us and our friends from our hometown. We met back up recently and I sorta got hit in the face with ‘your gay ass is still in love with your best friend’ and…” He pauses at the laughter, turning to the crowd. “You know, as you do,” he adds, grinning. Too caught up in the excitement of the whole thing to even realize he had used the word ‘gay’, which is probably a good thing otherwise he might spiral into a panic attack.

\--

Ah, deflection. Talk about what menaces they were as kinds, how much the teachers had to hate them but couldn’t really because despite what image Richie put up, he was really smart and always flew through classes. Eddie chuckles to himself at the memory of their half and half homework scheme. It had most definitely _not_ been Eddie’s idea, that was a Richie scheme, through and through. But Eddie doesn’t mind the lie so much.

Then Richie goes back to the questions, talks about finding each other again. And so casually, so fucking offhandedly, actually says the words, actually calls himself ‘gay.’ Eddie is so damn proud of him. So proud. He still struggles saying the word at home, when they’re the only two there. Still struggling with being open about it. Hell, Eddie does, too. It’s a hard thing to learn about yourself and then admit to yourself, this late in life.

Eddie is so goddamn attracted to Richie in that moment. He’s laughing, he’s comfortable, he’s proud. And he’s so fucking beautiful. Richie is always beautiful. Even if he wears the same outfit six different ways and barely seems to care about taking care of himself. But now, with how strong he’s being, he’s absolutely fucking gorgeous. Eddie really can’t wait for this dumb little segment to be over because he really really wants to kiss Richie.

“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” the host says, nodding along after Richie’s confession. He taps his notecards on the table a couple times, straightening them. “Unfortunately, that’s nearly all the time we have. You’ve got a new show coming up soon, isn’t that right? Where can people find you?”

\--

Richie grins, head tilting. “Yup, new Netflix special coming out soon. I’m sure if you want to youtube me for some god forsaken reason you’ll find awful, awful videos from years ago.” His nose scrunches up, and he shakes his head. “I’ve got a sort of mini-tour up and down the West Coast, and if the Netflix things go well I might end up with a country wide tour so. Here’s hoping,” he grins, pushing up to his feet. He shakes the host’s hand, then offers a dramatic bow to the audience.

Once the cameraman calls for commercial break, Richie loosens up a little more and nods to the host. He wants to get to Eddie, though. Wants to go to him, hold him, take a moment to decompress because he feels a little dizzy. He makes his way off stage, offering a few more waves to the audience as he goes. Then he nearly crashes into Eddie.

“I think I might throw up,” he says, wrapping his arms too tightly around Eddie and burying his face in his neck. It smushes his glasses into his face, and overall is a little uncomfortable. But being wrapped around Eddie helps. He’s still dizzy and kind of nauseated, but this is so much better. He lets out a shaky breath, then smiles against Eddie’s neck.

“Fucking hell, Eds, I told people,” he breathes out, sounding vaguely wrecked.

\--

The host stands to shake Richie’s hand once more. “Rich Tozier, everybody!” As Richie walks off set, a commercial break is called, and Richie walks straight to Eddie. The collision is almost too much for Eddie’s still healing body to handle, but he manages to stay standing and keep from wincing. He wants this just as much as Richie does, after all.

“You ok, Richie? I can take you to a bathroom, or outside? Get you some fresh air?” Eddie’s concern is real, he knows how Richie tends to throw up when he’s nervous. Or anxious. Or overwhelmed. It’s just his body’s reaction to stress. “We can get you some water, too.”

Richie’s face is pressed hard into Eddie’s neck, so he nearly doesn’t hear the next breathy words tumbling out. Eddie smiles, rubbing circles into Richie’s back. “Yeah, buddy, you did. I’m so proud of you. Come on, let’s go find somewhere to sit so you can calm down, then we can go home, ok?”

There are a lot of things running through Eddie’s brain. Concern for Richie’s health and wellbeing. Pride at his bravery and strength. Exhaustion from the release of all the energy spent anxious over this moment. But mostly, just feels intensely and deeply in love with the man in his arms. He turns his head enough so he can place a small kiss to the side of Richie’s head, catching the tip of his ear. “Come on.”

\--

Richie shakes his head. Or he tries to, it’s more of a weird twitch considering how firmly his face is pressed into Eddie’s neck. It’s...a lot. He had gone out onto a live show and he had announced that he had a boyfriend. And it had gone well. The crowd had responded eagerly, happy for him. The host had just scrambled to keep professional but it had obviously been from shock and not malice. All of it is so strange. Strange, but good. It feels so fucking good to be open to the world for the first time in his life.

Eddie’s lips brush over his ear and press into the side of his head and Richie lets out a soft sigh before finally pulling back. “Yeah. Okay, sitting down. Sounds good,” he says, offering a little smile. It’s kind of shaky, due to the anxiety still coursing through his body. The nerves that haven’t quite settled yet. But clearly genuine. He lets Eddie guide him, leading them back towards the green room.

As they’re walking, Richie hears one of the stagehands call to him and he pauses. She’s about his age. She jogs the last few yards to get to them. “Hey, Mr. Tozier,” she greets, and Richie tries not to wince at the too professional name. “I just wanted to tell you that my daughter and her girlfriend really love you and this whole thing? It’s going to make them feel...I don’t know the word I need but it’s going to be good. So thank you,” she says. Richie blinks a few times, then smiles.

“You’d think years in the closet would make me dress better, huh?” he ends up saying looking down at himself before shrugging. “But yeah. I’m glad. I hope your daughter keeps it up with being proud of who she is.”

And he means that. Because the idea of anyone having to grow up hating themselves like he did, of hiding and being so afraid of anyone knowing? He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And he had never really thought about what his coming out might mean for other people. Sure, he has fans, and he knows some of them must be gay. It’s just statistics, really. But it had never occurred to him what it might mean for them to see him come out on stage.

“Do either of you need us to get you anything? There should already be water in the green room, but anything else?” the stage hand asks, looking between the two. “You both look… rough.”

\--

Richie agrees to sitting down, so Eddie starts leading him toward Richie’s green room. It’s not anything special, just a little room with a couch and some water for Richie to hang out in before and after his appearance. Now that he’s finished on the show, he can stay there for a bit before they go home, so it’s as good a place as any for them to go. It’ll be quiet and secluded.

They’re stopped before they make it though, a stagehand coming up to them. At first, Eddie wonders if there’s some post show obligation Richie has that he just hasn’t heard of. Which would be strange, since, as his manager, Eddie had been meticulous in planning all of this. Instead, it’s something much sweeter. The woman, about their age and looking tired but also quite happy, starts talking about her daughter and her daughter’s girlfriend. It’s not much, but Eddie can tell it means everything to Richie. It’s one of those things he probably hadn’t considered, that this step he’s taking would _help_ people. But of course, Richie has to make some kind of joke before answering like a human being, but that’s just who he is, and Eddie wouldn’t have him any other way.

Richie is going to do good things in this world. He may not believe it, or believe in himself, but Eddie knows. He was before, even with shitty ghostwriters, he had a fan base that he was reaching, making them laugh. Now he will have even more ways to reach people, to help people. It’s not going to be easy, but being gay in the public eye is going to help people, and Eddie couldn’t be more proud.

Before she leaves them, the stagehand offers to get them anything. Eddie looks over at Richie, assessing him, trying to think if he can think of anything. “Ginger ale, maybe? Water is fine for me but I think Richie could use some ginger ale before we take off. Thank you so much.” He’s just going to ignore the ‘you look rough’ comment.

With that, they leave the stagehand to run off to get some ginger ale for them while Eddie continues to lead them into the green room and sit Richie down. Eddie kneels in front of him. “How are you feeling, Richie? Here, sip some water while we wait for that ginger ale, ok?” He hands him one of the bottles from the mini fridge. “I’m so proud of you, you did so amazing up there.”

\--

Richie watches the stage hand nod and run off to find some ginger ale, and not for the first time he realizes how fucking lucky he is to have Eddie. Eddie is taking complete charge to take care of him, and it’s so nice. He slumps a bit once the woman runs off, and he lets Eddie finish leading him to the green room. He settles down, a little dazed, and sips at the water he’s offered. It’s all so surreal. So strange to know he had actively announced to the world that he’s gay and in an amazing relationship. Good, of course, but strange.

He takes a moment to just stare at Eddie, eyes wide like he’s in awe. He _is_ in awe. Unable to really believe that this amazing, brave, intelligent man wants him. Is kneeling in front of him, taking care of him with such warmth in his eyes. Richie can’t believe it. He can’t fathom how he had ever managed to get this lucky.

He reaches forward after a moment, cupping Eddie’s face in his hand. Thumb brushing over his cheek bone, sweet and gentle. Reverent, not like Eddie is fragile but like he’s special. As if Richie knows he has no right to be touching him, an unattainable treasure he’s being blessed with the chance to feel. And that’s always what it has felt like, even when they were kids. It has always felt like he doesn’t deserve to be close to him, like he’s invading on something sacred and he will soil it if he gets too close.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he says. Then, the courage runs out and any genuine comment he had been about to say dies on the tip of his tongue and he shakes his head.

“It took thirty years of fucking your mom but I finally got to upgrade,” he ends up saying. “Think I can get a refund on that time? Because that’s way too long for a system update. Where’s customer service?”

\--

He doesn’t even realise he does it, but Eddie leans into the touch when Richie reaches out for him. It’s like a special kind of gravitational force only for them. One they both respond to, time and time again. Ever since they were kids. If he were a less cynical person, Eddie might even call it soulmates.

And then Richie opens his trash mouth.

Eddie frowns without malice. “Alright, I’m leaving you here, find your own way home.” Eddie moves to stand but doesn’t get very far before he grins and that gravitational force pulls him back to Richie. “But seriously. Richie. I love you. So much.”

Before Eddie can lean forward and kiss Richie, there’s a knock at the door before the stagehand pokes her head in. “I’ve got some ginger ale for you, Mr. Tozier.” She’s obviously embarrassed, assuming she’s interrupted something. Which she has, but it’s nothing Eddie can’t pick up later.

He gets up after patting Richie’s knee and grabs the can from her. “Thank you, that is kind of you, we appreciate it. We’ll be out of your hair soon.” After Richie calms down.

The stagehand offers a smile before closing the door again and Eddie is immediately back in front of Richie. He opens the ginger ale and offers it to Richie. “Drink this, then we should go home.”

\--

Richie doesn’t once look towards the stage hand when the door opens. The entire time, his eyes are locked onto Eddie. Watching him a soft warmth in his eyes. The look of a man so deeply in love he can’t stand it. And he keeps watching Eddie as he takes the soda, thanks the woman, returns to his side. Watches as Eddie goes so far as to open the can for him. Instead of taking the can, Richie ducks down to kiss Eddie. Sweet, soft. Warm. No intent of going further but desperate to feel him.

He lingers there for a long moment, kissing Eddie sweetly. And he lets out a sigh when he pulls back, bumping their foreheads together for a brief moment. Then he pulls back and takes the can from him, sipping at it. “Thank you,” he says, and he wonders if Eddie knows he’s thanking him for so much more than a can of ginger ale. Thanking him for bothering to care about whether he feels alright, for taking such good care of him, as if not doing so was an absurd idea. For understanding even when Richie can’t quite make himself get the words out and he resorts to his stupid jokes.

For loving him.

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” he says. “It’s weird, usually the throwing up happens before I go on stage. This might be the first time I thought I was gonna hurl _after_ I’m off stage,” he muses.

Richie manages to stay still for approximately one minute before he gets antsy and pulls his phone out. He goes right to Twitter and he types his own name in. He hesitates, the nerves surging once more. Does he want to see? This show had been live, after all. He swallows thickly, then hits enter.

He is… genuinely surprised by the responses. Mostly shock, but generally it’s kind. Accepting. He shifts, letting Eddie see the screen and he can’t help the relieved burst of laughter that is punched out of him. A list of people congratulating him, saying they’re proud. A few people calling him an icon.

“Oh my fucking god Eds listen to this,” he says, beaming now as he read the tweets. “‘Rich Tozier bagged the guy he’s been into for thirty years? Honestly, goals.’ Fucking hell.”

\--

Before taking the can from Eddie, Richie surprises him with a sweet, lingering kiss. Eddie is more than happy to accept, melting into it automatically. He’s already so damn comfortable accepting affection from Richie because it’s so easy. So natural. It feels like he should have been doing it his entire life. And, in a way, he has, he supposes. But he still feels like he missed out on a lot during those nearly thirty years apart.

Eddie only offers a smile in response to Richie’s thanks and the following musings. He doesn’t need thanks. He knows Richie is thankful or grateful or whatever he wanted to call it. He doesn’t need words to know that. It’s in the way he looks at him, in the gentle way he touches him before kissing, in the meals he prepares Eddie nearly every day. There are so many ways Richie says thank you without even realising it.

It isn’t until Richie pulls out his phone that he starts to worry a bit. There are a lot of things that Richie could find there that could send him spiraling into either anxiety or depression. But there could also be a lot of good things there, too. Reassurances that what he did was powerful to people and that he did the right thing. Eddie, trying to show his support, rests his hands on Richie’s legs and gives a gentle squeeze, a reminder that Richie isn’t alone in this. And never will be.

When Richie starts shifting to show him the little screen as he scrolls through public reactions, Eddie repositions himself to the couch so he’s sitting next to Richie, making it more comfortable for the both of them. There are hardly any negative responses. Most of them are congratulatory, proud, excited. And then Richie reads him one. “Yeah, I can relate to that one.” Eddie chuckles. “Still hard to believe, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.” He smiles, focusing back on Richie. “You feel better now that people aren’t being assholes about it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third chapter is the longest and also contains an obscene amount of smut, get ready!
> 
> Whenever I finish editing it...


	3. Confessions Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck,” he breathes out, after a long few moments of kissing Eddie like it’s his last chance to do so. “You’re okay, right? You’re good, we’re good? Because I really need you to fuck me, Eds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone still remember this? Well, it just about doubled in length because Jamie and I have zero chill when it comes to writing porn. Enjoy.

It doesn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes before Richie feels better, okay enough to head on home. In fact, it might have taken less time if not for how Richie is still a bit dumbfounded by the idea of his house being Eddie’s home. Eddie calls it home, every chance he gets, and it always makes Richie’s gut twist and turn and sure, it has already been a few minutes since he had said it but it’s still all Richie can think about. Because that house had never really felt like home until Eddie was there.

And their ride home isn’t any different from any other ride home. They make a couple jokes, and Richie sings along with his playlist through the bluetooth. And if he gets more and more into it as he watches Eddie’s reactions to him, then who can blame him? He lives to please his audience, and he lives to make Eddie happy.

He groans dramatically as he enters the house, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it onto the back of the chair before collapsing into it. “That was way more exhausting than it had any right to be,” he demands, sprawling himself out over the chair as much as possible. “Order some shitty take out and watch bad reality TV?” he offers. Normally, he would cook dinner for them, bustle around the kitchen while Eddie bullshits with him. But he’s exhausted and ordering in sounds so much easier. Cuddle a bit while they watch TV, then go curl up in bed together when they’re ready to go to sleep. A simple, easy night. Maybe some making out, if Richie can convince Eddie. It’s hit or miss, really. Sure, he and Myra are officially separated, and the divorce papers have been served. But Myra hasn’t signed them and Eddie is too good to go further than kisses until she has.

Richie loves how good Eddie is but he also kind of fucking hates it.

But when Eddie is wanting it badly enough, Richie can convince him to get a little more into the kisses. Can ease his guilt with the logic of ‘she knows you’re not coming back and you are in the process of getting divorced, even if she hasn’t signed anything yet she knows she has to.’ And Richie feels a little guilty about that, but he also doesn’t actually think Myra deserves the respect Eddie is offering her. None of that really matters, though, because it’s only a matter of time before Eddie is completely free of her and can dive into their relationship with a clear conscious.

“I don’t want to be a person for the rest of the night,” Richie continues, arching his back to stretch. “I want to watch a British baking show and feel bad about my own baking skills. And maybe have you pet my hair.”

\--

The drive home is much like any other day. Richie drives, Eddie still technically not well enough to. They chat and joke, Richie sings. Richie sings _really well_. Eddie really likes when Richie sings, especially when he sings to him. It’s… it does something to his insides, makes him warm and twists inside of him. So Eddie always listens attentively, more often than not ends up blushing wildly. Because it’s always some dumb love song and Richie is always so passionate about it.

When they finally arrive home, Richie all but collapses into the chair. Eddie must say, he’s a little disappointed. The chair is harder to cuddle on, not offering nearly as much room as the couch. But that doesn’t mean Eddie won’t try. He comes up behind the chair and puts his hands on Richie’s shoulder, leaning down to plant a kiss to the top of his head. “Sounds great.” Eddie would try to cook, pamper Richie for a change. But he’s not the best in the kitchen and it really is nice sometimes to just get some take out and relax. And he can tell Richie needs it.

“You order something for us, I’m going to go change. I can treat you like a dog when I get back.” Eddie’s hands squeeze Richie’s shoulders gently before heading off toward the bedroom to find something more comfortable. It’s a warm enough day, especially in the apartment, so he settles on a pair of running shorts that might be a bit small on him, but he hasn’t had a chance to get new ones, and one of Richie’s band t-shirts. The shirt is big on him, hangs low and feels like a warm hug. Plus, he knows Richie likes seeing him in his clothes.

Just before he’s about to go back and join his boyfriend for some overly polite baking competition show, his phone rings. He wants to ignore it, but since his phone number is on some of Richie’s contracts and there’s the possibility for important calls of his own, he answers it. “Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

“Eddie, it’s Mark. How are you?”

Ah, his divorce lawyer. This has the potential to be a very headache inducing phone call. Still, he accepts the pleasantries and small talk. “Hey, Mark, I’m alright, just got back from a show with Richie. What’s up?” He doesn’t want this to last too long.

“Yeah, I saw it. Give him a congratulations from me. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’ve received the papers from Myra. She’s signed them. All that’s left now is to file them and wait. You’re all but officially divorced.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. He doesn’t have words. He fully expected Myra to drag this along as long as humanly possible. He thought he was going to have to take some kind of legal action in order to force the divorce along. But now she’s just… signed the papers. “Thanks, I’ve got to go,” he mutters into the receiver. Mark starts to respond, but he’s already hit the end button, hanging up on the man.

Until then, Eddie had been holding back with Richie. Not because he held any real respect for the legal contract with Myra, but out of respect for Richie. He didn’t want to do anything with Richie with this divorce hanging over their heads, especially since he _knows_ Myra would be the type to find out and find some way to use it against them. But now…

He leaves the bedroom to rejoin Richie in the living room. He silently climbs into Richie’s lap and throws his arms around him, burying himself into Richie. “So, I just got a phone call.”

\--

Richie can’t help but grin. “Going to go slip into something a little more comfortable?” he asks, voice rising in a parody of the phrase. He tilts his head back to look at Eddie, still grinning at him. “Gonna come back out in a negligee and some heels?” He chuckles a bit, eyes crinkling at the corners from the happiness. He’s exhausted, sure, but there is a bone deep contentment settling in him. He isn’t hiding from anyone, anymore. He knows it isn’t a one and done, he knows he’ll have to come out over and over again to different people, but he isn’t hiding anymore and it feels amazing.

He groans dramatically, dragging himself off of the chair. He puts his coat in the hall closet, and dials the number for their usual Thai place. Which is nice to say, really. They already have a usual place, and he feels a little dumb for thinking that but really all he can think about is how nice it is to have this. He orders their usual, and settles down on the couch this time. The chair isn’t really big enough for both of them, and it makes cuddling for any length of time uncomfortable. Plus, Richie doesn’t want to agitate Eddie’s still healing wounds.

When Eddie comes back out - having taken longer than usual, but Richie suspects he’s perhaps in some pain from the way he had crashed into him earlier, and Richie felt bad about that - Richie wants to _sob_. Eddie always looks good, of course. Richie always wants to look at him, to touch him. But right now? Richie isn’t sure he trusts his self control. Wearing what Richie has lovingly dubbed as his ‘fuck me’ shorts and one of Richie’s shirts. Richie hates it and loves it all at the same time. The shorts are too small, and the material leaves an almost unnaturally clear outline of his dick and Richie wants to get his mouth on him. Wants to drop to his knees and let Eddie fuck his mouth until he’s satisfied.

He watches Eddie walk over to him, watches Eddie as he crawls into his lap and settles. Immediately, Richie’s hands land on Eddie’s hips and he tilts his head to kiss Eddie’s with a satisfied hum. He respects Eddie’s refusal to go much further than kissing and as much as he wants to have sex with him, he would never say he doesn’t love this, too. The casual way they both just gravitate towards one another. The way they fit together so easily, pressed into one another like they’re meant to be there. It feels good, so good.

“”Phone call?” he asks, brows furrowing a bit. “At this time of night? Was it Jake from Statefarm?” he demands in a clearly false accusatory tone.

\--

Jake from - _Really?_

Eddie can’t hold back the full bodied laugh that bubbles up out of him. The absurdity of it, but also the dichotomy. The dichotomy of the meaning behind the statement. He can picture Myra saying the same words, but she would _mean_ them. She would be the type to hear him on the phone with some insurance agent and question his motives. She would, she _has_. But Richie is just so… different. He’s joking, and never would question Eddie’s motives when he has a simple phone call. “No, but maybe I should call him, do you think he’d be interested?” Eddie replies with a raised brow before burrowing his face back into Richie’s chest.

“But seriously. It was Mark, the lawyer. He, uh… Myra signed the papers. It’s just a matter of playing the waiting game now.” Eddie takes a deep breath once it’s out in the open. It feels… really good. It feels liberating. Eddie’s heart feels light and yet he still has this strange underlying anxiety. He _knows_ Richie wouldn’t just drop him now that he has nothing to fall back on, but his stupid brain would sure have him believe that. The little insecurities he can’t quite clear from his mind.

“So, uh, yeah,” he says awkwardly. “I guess I’m no longer a married man.”

\--

Eddie laughs out loud and Richie _beams_. He loves making Eddie laugh. Loves the way his entire body shakes with the force of it and how his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s beautiful, absolutely stunning. Richie literally loses his breath when he looks at Eddie like this, sometimes. So blown away by how fucking beautiful he is. So disgustingly in love with him that he can’t take it. And then Eddie’s response makes it even better. “I knew you had a thing for Khaki’s, Kaspbrak,” he ends up saying, and the too big smile on his face is obvious in his voice.

And then Eddie keeps talking and Richie tenses. Mark. Of course Richie knows who Mark is, Eddie hadn’t even needed to explain. Myra signed the papers. There’s still legal proceedings, of course, but Eddie is, for all intents and purposes, a divorced man. And there’s a lot going on in his head in a very short amount of time. Shock, excitement, overwhelming happiness.

Arousal.

His hands tighten on Eddie’s hips, then he reaches up to push Eddie back so he can look at him. Eyes wide, his heart pounding in the base of his throat. He reaches his hand even further up, cupping Eddie’s face in his hand. “All mine, then?” he ends up asking. Because he has belonged to Eddie for a long, long time. His whole life, more or less. His thumb brushes over Eddie’s cheek, then he drags Eddie down to kiss him. Firm, eager. Desperate.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, after a long few moments of kissing Eddie like it’s his last chance to do so. “You’re okay, right? You’re good, we’re good? Because I really need you to fuck me, Eds.”

\--

Eddie’s anxiety mounts while Richie cycles through several emotions. Eddie isn’t totally sure on all of them, but they seem good. He thinks. It’s hard to tell when his anxiety is trying to convince him Richie is going to leave him any second, kick him out, throw him on his ass. Even though he _knows_ that isn’t true.

Although, when Richie starts pushing Eddie back, his stomach drops because for half a second it’s like all his worst fears are coming true. But then Richie cups his face and Eddie feels kind of like an idiot at how fast he melts into the touch. “Always have been all yours, but now it’s… yeah. All yours.” He melts just as readily into the following kiss Richie drags him into.

All of his anxieties seem to disappear, then. And he feels his face get hot at Richie’s next words. Because he’s been thinking about it, too. And he wants to. “I’m good, Rich, I’m more than good. I’m…” he doesn’t know what to say that can properly convey how he feels. Happy doesn’t seem like it’s enough. So, instead, he kisses Richie again, long and deep and hard.

When they part, Eddie is breathing harder and he really just wants to dive back in and keep kissing Richie and maybe more because he thinks he’s ready for that. And he _can_ now. No threat of anything hanging over them, no divorce because it’s _done_. “Did you order food? Because I would love to take you to bed right now, but I don’t want to be interrupted.”

\--

It takes a long moment for Richie to process the question. Then he groans and his head falls back against the couch. “Fuck!” He sounds… genuinely pissed. Frustrated and too turned on to deal with this. He reaches blindly to the side, grabbing his phone. He flicks through the contacts and calls that Thai place back. It’s been less than ten minutes, he can get away with canceling it, right? And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s pathetic and dumb to literally cancel their food delivery so he can have sex. But fuck, he wants it so badly. 

“Hi, I have an order for Rich Tozier?” he says, almost before the person has said hello. “Yeah. I need to cancel it. Yeah that’s fine. Alright. Thanks.” He hangs up, tossing the phone to the side and reaching to drag Eddie down again to kiss him again. Eager and desperate and a little messy. Needing it, his entire body on fire in the best possible way. He tangles a hand into Eddie’s hair, dragging him impossibly close.

“Fuck me,” he repeats, in between kisses. Hips already grinding up, and he should probably be embarrassed that he’s already hard but he can’t find it in himself to care. “C’mon, Eddie, please I need it. You don’t know how fucking bad I want you, I’ve been thinking about it forever.” He ducks his head slightly, starting to press sweet kisses along Eddie’s jaw. “Please. Please, Eddie.”

\--

Richie’s head hits the back of the couch and Eddie knows he’s frustrated because of the food. Hell, Eddie is, too. Sure, he’s hungry, but right now he’s a lot hungrier for Richie than he is for any food. So when Richie grabs his phone and quickly cancels the order, Eddie can only smile. Smile and let himself be dragged into the kiss the moment the phone is hung up.

There’s hands in his hair and Eddie reaches up to put his in Richie’s, tugging at the strands a bit. He has such nice hair. Curly, soft, long enough to get a really good grip on. It feels really nice to have his fingers tangled up in it.

Eddie chases Richie every time he pulls even the slightest bit away, making it hard to understand the words being spoken to him. But he doesn’t want to stop, not when it feels this good and not when there’s _nothing_ to stop him. Even when Richie starts moving to kiss Eddie along his jaw, Eddie wants to keep kissing Richie, not wanting to lose that contact.

But there’s something they should probably at least mention first.

Eddie runs his hands through Richie’s hair, humming an almost moan at the sinful way Richie’s mouth feels on his skin. “Rich, Rich, slow down, just for a second.” He waits until they’re looking at each other, until Richie has stopped kissing him long enough to hear what he’s going to say. “I’ve…” he takes a deep breath, embarrassed, “I’ve never done this before.”

\--

Richie hums, low in his throat. Tugging sweetly at Eddie's hair as he leaves sweet kisses and bites along Eddie's jaw. This is known territory. This is something they have done before. They have made out and dragged each other close. Have kissed at one another’s necks and jaws and they have licked into each others mouths like starving men. The thing making this so exciting, so amazing, is knowing where it’s going. Is knowing he’s allowed to push for more, to ask for more. He knows he gets to...well. Make love to him. And he feels stupid for using the term but he believes it.

He takes a moment to process that Eddie had said something. And he pulls away, trying to make his brain connect to his mouth. He wants to say something, but he can't actually create any words for a long moment. He just gapes at him, then nods dumbly. 

"Yeah. Yeah that's fine Eds it's not like I've done this a whole bunch," he says, voice cracking. He swallows thickly, hand coming up to cup Eddie's face again. Thumb brushing over his cheek bone lovingly. "I...fuck. Eddie I love you and I want you and who the fuck cares." He tilts his head, dragging Eddie down to kiss him again. Not quite understanding what exactly Eddie means. Too overwhelmed by the desire coursing through him, the heat in his core. How hard he is, rolling his hips up into Eddie. 

He nips sweetly at Eddie's lips, nudging their noses together. "I promise I won't even judge you if you suck," he adds, a teasing little grin on his face.

\--

“Richie. Are you hearing me? I’ve _never_ done this. Not at all. Not with anyone. Man or woman.” Eddie can feel his face burning, but he’s got to make this clear. “I love you, too, but I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing.”

And that’s it. It’s not just that he’s a fucking forty-year-old virgin. He can deal with that, came to peace with it years ago, around the time Myra stopped trying to get him to take her clothes off. And that had to have been at least five years ago. He has never even tried to bed someone, even when he was dating. He just… never wanted to. Thinking back, it probably had something to do with his buried gay feelings for his childhood best friend he hadn’t remembered at the time, but it doesn’t really matter now.

Because now he _does_ want to. He wants to so badly it hurts. But he’s also scared. Terrified, even. He wants to make Richie _feel good_. And he isn’t sure he can. Doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know the first thing about actually having sex, much less gay sex. What it entails, what he has to do. Sure, he has a very clinical idea. You don’t get to forty without having seen some porn and learning some things. But he has no practical knowledge. None. And he knows Richie does. And Eddie is just so terrified that he’s going to screw up, potentially even hurt Richie in some way.

“Don’t get me wrong, I want to, I want to so fucking bad. I just…” He trails off, unsure of what to say, how to convey all of the things he feels without sounding like a complete prude.

\--

Richie blinks a few times. Oh. Oh that… isn't a surprise, actually. And he feels a little bad about that, feels a little guilty for not really being surprised by the fact that Eddie has never had sex. He also feels bad /for/ Eddie, because he certainly deserves to have sex. To be wanted, to be adored. To be shown how amazing he is. And there’s another part of him, small admittedly, that’s kind of happy to be his first. Or...perhaps happy isn’t the right word. Maybe honored is more apt a description. But either way, he isn’t bothered by it, as it seems like Eddie is concerned he might be.

“I’ll walk you through it,” he ends up saying, cupping Eddie’s face in both his hands. Making him look down at him. “Eds, baby, look at me. I don’t fucking care, okay? It’s not a big deal. I don’t want some porn star level expert. I just want you.” He traces over Eddie’s bottom lip with his thumb and he offers a smile. “I love you. I love you and I _want_ you and so long as you want this, I’m fine playing lab rat while you figure it out.”

He kisses Eddie again, softer this time. More loving than needy. Of course, he’s still turned on. Still hard and too hot and desperate to be stretched on Eddie’s cock. But he’d wait as long as he has to, and if Eddie isn’t ready to have sex then maybe they can just jack each other off. “We don’t need to get that far tonight, okay?” he insists, back to trailing kisses over whatever part of Eddie he can reach. “If you just wanna make out then I can go get off in the shower, after. I just…” he pauses, taking a deep breath.

“This is gonna sound stupid as fuck but I...fuck, Eds, I want it to be making love and if you aren’t comfortable I don’t want to,” he adds, hiding his face in Eddie’s neck.

\--

Oh. Eddie hadn’t really been expecting how _sweet_ Richie would be. Didn’t think he’d hear him call him baby so simply, tracing his lips so sweetly. It’s not like it’s even new, none of this has been new yet. Richie calls him sweet little pet names all the time and touches him softly as much as he can. But somehow it’s different.

He accepts Richie’s now soft, tender kiss. When they break apart, he offers a small smile, “I love you.” But then Richie goes on about not having to go that far and Eddie not being comfortable and, sweet as he is, wonderful as he is, he’s still missing the point.

“I want to. Richie, there is no one else that I would rather do this with.” Although, thinking about Richie getting himself off in the shower? Kind of (really) hot. Even if it would completely wreck the pipes. “It’s not that I’m not _comfortable_. I just… I don’t want to screw up.” He guides Richie’s face back up so he can kiss him sweetly. But sweetly turns into kind of desperate, which morphs into something altogether more intense. By the time he’s pulled back again, his eyes have honed in on nothing but Richie. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

And while Eddie can’t bring himself to say he wants to make love to Richie without risking his face actually burning off from the heat of embarrassment, that’s exactly what he wants. Eddie lets one hand run through Richie’s hair again before settling near the nape of his neck, holding him so he can kiss him again. His other hand drops to somewhere just below Richie’s collarbone before sliding, slowly, down the front of him. He’s nervous and has no idea what he’s doing, but it feels right.

\--

Richie ends up completely lost in the kiss for a moment, pushing into it too eagerly. His nerve endings on fire, his heart pounding. Excitement and nerves and pleasure searing through him until the only thing he can think of is Eddie. He tangles up a hand in Eddie’s hair, needing too long to actually really process his words. Needing to take a few moments to actually let what he says settle and start to make sense. Then, he nods and nudges their noses together.

“That’s not how sex works, dumbass,” he says, but his voice is soft and loving. “No one is fucking perfect. Especially not the first time they’re with someone. Even if you’ve fucked a thousand people - which would be impressive, by the way - then your first time with me won’t be perfect because we don’t know each other yet. I need to learn your body and you need to learn mine.” He shakes his head, and he shudders when Eddie’s hand trails down his chest. 

“We both need to figure it out. We both need to tell the other when to stop or keep going or go harder or soft or whatever we need done differently. We have to learn as we go. That’s part of the fun, Spaghed. Taking the time to figure out how to touch each other.” He smiles at him, head tilting slightly and he rests a hand on Eddie’s thigh. Bare because of those too small shorts. He squeezes, then his hand trails up until he’s gripping his hip. “So. With that in mind,” he says, using the hand still cupping Eddie’s face, he drags him down. Close, but instead of kissing him he presses his lips next to Eddie’s ear.

“Will you fuck me? Please.” 

\--

Richie’s words make… a lot of sense, actually. And they make Eddie feel a lot better about everything. They both have to learn, and it’s ok if he’s bad, they can practice. They can keep trying again and again until they learn each other completely, and then they can keep finding new things, even then.

Eddie really wants to learn Richie.

The hand on his thigh has his whole body arcing with electricity. These are feelings he’s never really felt before. He’s been turned on, of course. And he’s no stranger to his right hand. But this is wildly different. Something about the unexpected ways Richie touches him that makes his nerves extra sensitive and send shocks through him.

And then he says _that_.

The position Richie has pulled them into has Eddie straddling Richie’s lap with Richie’s mouth blowing short, hot breaths right against his ear while Eddie’s own mouth is pressed up close to one of Richie’s ears. It’s intimate in a way he never would have imagined. Eddie can’t seem to make his mouth _move_ though, with the way his throat feels tight with way too many emotions. So, instead, he just nods, swallowing hard. The hand he’d been trailing down Richie’s front slips around to his back, beneath his wild button up, and the fabric of Richie’s jeans feels suddenly so rough against Eddie’s thighs.

\--

Richie feels Eddie nod against his head, and he whines. A surprisingly high pitched, needy noise that he’s a little embarrassed by. But he doesn’t linger on that embarrassment for long, too focused on the way it feels to have Eddie straddling him like this. Those hands on him, the warm weight of him. It’s perfect and comforting and _exciting_ and Richie is losing his goddamn mind. It’s amazing, so fucking good. He wants it, needs it like he needs air. He wants to never stop touching Eddie, wants to drown in him. 

He carefully nudges Eddie until he’s off his lap, and Richie pushes up to his feet with him. He drags him into another kiss, starting on guiding them to the bedroom. Slower than he wants, but he doesn’t want to accidentally slam Eddie into a wall and hurt him. Sure, they’re at a point where he probably isn’t going to reopen the wounds, but he still isn’t completely healed. So Richie moves at a slower pace, taking that time to trail his hands all over Eddie. His shoulders, his arms, his chest. Every part of him, relearning parts of Eddie’s body he had already long since memorized, if not through touch then simply by looking.

When he gets to the bedroom, the backs of his knees hitting the bed, he finally pulls away again. Looking at Eddie, eyes wide. His hands grip at the bottom of Eddie’s shirt - Richie’s shirt, that’s his shirt and he fucking loves it on Eddie - and leans in to press their foreheads together. “Can I take it off?” he asks.

Because he has always been like this. His first experience with a man, he hadn’t been too considerate about whether or not Richie wanted to keep going and his first time with a woman had been even worse. So Richie makes it a point to make sure his partners are okay, that he has their consent to do anything. And Richie especially wants Eddie to know he can say no, even if Richie really hopes he doesn’t.

\--

The sound Richie makes when Eddie agrees to his request is something sinful that he will commit to memory for the rest of his life. He’s pretty sure he will dream about that sound for years to come. _Hot_.

He clings to Richie, even as Richie nudges him to standing. He still clings. At least one hand touching _something_ on him at all times. When Richie is standing, too, Eddie crashes their lips together at the same time Richie goes to do the same. Blindly, he trusts Richie to move them. For the first time in a long time, Eddie doesn’t feel the need to be in control. He _trusts_ Richie. Knows they’ll get where they’re going and they’ll get there safely.

And they do. Richie stops when there’s nowhere else to go, having run into the bed they had been sharing. His eyes are wide as they look at Eddie as if it’s the first time he’s seeing him. It’s… intense. But not in a bad way. And when Richie tugs at the borrowed shirt and asks so sweetly if he can take it off, Eddie breathes a, “Yeah,” in response.

This isn’t even really new. Sometimes, Eddie sleeps without a shirt, especially in the warmth of Los Angeles. He’s used to New York, where it snows 8 months of the year. So it’s not like Richie hasn’t seen him before. But this is different. This is… Eddie feels himself flush with self conscious embarrassment.

“Can I…?” he asks, tugging at Richie’s shirt. He asks more as a distraction from himself than anything else, but he also really wants to see Richie. He wants to touch, find out what spots make him shiver or moan like he did on the couch.

\--

As soon as he’s given permission, Richie tugs the shirt up and off of Eddie’s body. He tosses it off to the side with no real care for where it goes and allows himself a moment to just look at him. He hasn’t exactly been able to do any sort of exercising since he’s been home, needing the wound to heal, but it’s clear he used to have some sort of routine. Something to keep him in good shape because _damn_. His chest is still toned, if only softly. His shoulders and arms have definition. He isn’t jacked, but clearly he takes good care of himself. And he’s so fucking beautiful, so _sexy_ , and Richie wants to touch him.

And he can. So he does. His hands trailing down over his chest, tracing every dip and curve of muscle. Eddie has a bandage, still, but it isn’t the full on mummy wrappings he’d been forced to wear when he first came home. This is just a large patch, more of a precaution than anything else. Richie traces along the edges of that, too. Touching the raw and red scarring on Eddie’s abdomen.

And then Eddie is asking to take his shirt off, too. It’s easy to let go of Eddie and let the overshirt fall off his shoulders. But the undershirt? Some graphic t-shirt - a comic reference, he thinks, he had been half asleep when he put it on - that is soft cotton. That’s harder to take off. Richie hasn’t actually really let himself be shirtless in front of Eddie, yet. He sleeps with a shirt on, they havn’t showered together since it’s a fucking process for Eddie to shower while keeping the wound wrapped and dry. And Richie is suddenly terrified. Embarrassed, even.

He knows he isn’t some disgustingly obese lump of fat, but sometimes - especially looking at Eddie like this - he kind of feels that way. He’s...softer. No real definition on his abdomen or chest. And he almost doesn’t want Eddie to see that. Doesn’t want to take his shirt off and show this beautiful, attractive man the blah that is his body. He swallows thickly, suddenly not able to meet Eddie’s eyes.

\--

Eddie can feel Richie’s eyes on him, taking him in. There’s still a bandage covering the last angry red of his wound, but it’s more or less out of the way. Healed enough for this. And it clearly doesn’t stop Richie from looking. Or touching. Richie’s hands feel _good_. Eddie has always loved Richie’s hands. Long fingers that almost always move in some way. It had always been easiest as kids for Eddie to watch them when Richie played his guitar. Or when they were crammed into the clubhouse hammock and he could watch the gentle tap tap of his index finger while he read a comic. But now, those hands are _on_ him. Touching him and they feel _so good_.

When Eddie asks to return the favour, Richie seems to have no problem letting his button up fall behind him, landing half on the bed and half off. Any other time, that would bother Eddie, but he doesn’t really care right now. He only has eyes for Richie. Richie, who is clearly hesitating when it comes to the t-shirt he’s still wearing. Who isn’t meeting his eyes anymore and looks _embarrassed_. _Richie_.

Eddie takes half a step closer, which is hard since they’re already so close. He gently lifts Richie’s face to look up at him. For a moment, Eddie just looks, just searches Richie’s eyes. Then, before speaking, he kisses him light and quick. “Hey, Richie, I already think you’re beautiful. You don’t have to hide from me, ok?” He doesn’t want to push him, make him go further than makes Richie comfortable. But he wants to see him, touch him, feel him skin to skin against him. He reaches down to the hem of the t-shirt and toys with it for a moment. “Can I? Please?”

\--

Richie kind of doesn’t want to meet Eddie's eyes, but he lets Eddie move his face sweetly. He swallows thickly, stomach tight with the embarrassment. He knows Eddie would never push him, he knows Eddie would never want to try to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. And it isn’t that he _doesn’t_ want to, he does. He wants to strip down and be with Eddie in every way. Wants to touch him, be touched by him. See him and be seen by him. But it’s so fucking hard to get over this stupid little hang up. Eddie looks so fucking sexy and Richie doesn’t _feel_ attractive.

“Easy to say when you’re a Greek god,” Richie ends up answering. “And not like Dionysus I'm talking full on Apollo here. Pulling the sun across the sky included." His fingers touch the side of Eddie's cheek softly as he says it, obviously teasing but it isn’t exactly covering up his self consciousness. In fact it might have just made it more obvious. And he knows, logically, it’s stupid to be so self conscious. Not everyone can have sculpted abs and a perfect body and Richie hasn’t exactly been taking care of himself for the past few years. Or his entire life, for that matter. 

He sighs, shoulders dropping as he leans forward to press their foreheads together. "I know you won’t give a shit," he breathes out. "It’s weird. Never bothered me this much before." He nudges their noses together, sweet and gentle and loving. Then straightens up and tugs the t-shirt off. He drops it down, then immediately dives in to kiss Eddie again as if trying to distract him. It won’t last forever, he knows. He can’t keep Eddie from seeing him by kissing him the whole time but maybe he can get used to the feeling of having his body exposed this way. It might give him a minute or two to actually calm down and realize he isn’t, in fact, some hideous beast and that Eddie isn’t going to be disgusted by him.

So he cups Eddie's face eagerly, desperately, and kisses him like he will never get the chance to again. Deep and eager and it’s enough for his cock to twitch in his jeans and the heat in his body to surge.

\--

Eddie scoffs at the compliment, not quite believing it. He’s nothing special, he knows that. Has always known that. But Richie makes him _feel_ special. And makes him feel like he actually maybe deserves the way he looks at him. And that’s what he wants for Richie, too. “Hardly. Have you seen yourself, Rich? You’re hot.”

Eddie lets Richie distract him for a moment, knowing that’s what he’s doing. But it feels nice, and it seems like it helps calm Richie down a bit. But he doesn’t let it go on forever. He pulls back gently, grabbing Richie’s wrists. “Here, sit down.” He sits next to Richie, feeling self conscious in his state of undress but ignoring it for the moment. “You remember the Chinese place? When we arm wrestled?” Eddie lets his hand slip down until he can twine their fingers together. “I thought I might die, watching you. It was so hot. Like,” he runs his free hand through his hair, trying to find the words, “Richie, your _arms_.”

Eddie sighs. “We can do this with your shirt on if you really want. But saying I won’t give a shit isn’t really accurate. I do give a shit, I give all of the shits. But not because of how you look. I give a shit about _you_.” He chuckles, thinking of how drastically their situation has flipped from Eddie freaking out about his lack of experience. “We’re such a mess, aren’t we?”

\--

Richie sits down easily when Eddie grabs his wrists oh so gently and guides him down. He tilts his head, watching Eddie as he trails his hand down to link their fingers. It honestly takes Richie off guard, the comment he makes. His arms? Well, looking at them now he supposes they aren’t bad. Toned from playing guitar and sure, he has a habit of doing pull ups on door frames when the restless energy becomes too much for him. But the idea that Eddie was focused on them? That he had looked at them while they had arm wrestled like a couple of idiots in some Chinese restaurant? It makes his stomach twist and flutter. 

He tightens his grip on Eddie’s hand, not enough to hurt him but enough to flex his forearm. The skin tightening up and the tendons bulging in his wrist. His veins just barely pushing out. “Oh yeah?” he says, a false confidence in his voice that he knows would sound cocky to most but painfully fake to Eddie. “And here I thought I was the only one distracted. You’ve always had such a pretty smile, Eds. I love seeing it.” His eyes soften as he says it, that fake confidence melting down in warm affection.

Then he pauses. Does he really want to put his shirt back on? No, not really. He wants to be as close to Eddie as possible, as little between them as they could get. He shakes his head, leaning in to brush their lips together. “Putting my shirt back on is way too much fucking effort. I’m hard and desperate and the guy I’ve been in love with for thirty years is willing to fuck me. No time for _redressing_ , Eds, I’ve been dreaming about this since puberty.” He grins, and the teasing is more genuine, now. Less of a cover up for how self conscious he is and more like their typical banter. 

He reaches his free hand across his body to cup Eddie’s face, and he keeps smiling. “Yeah we’re a couple’a messes. But whatever, we’re figure it out. You gonna let me suck your cock now, or what?” 

\--

Richie seems to be shedding most of his fears and insecurities. At least enough that he seems more comfortable. The joking around in a normal way is a good sign. Especially when he drops the jokes to flirt. Eddie blushes at that, thinking anyone thinks his smile is pretty. And his whole body feels hot at the way Richie flexes his arm, showing off the muscles he had just gushed over.

It’s nice, because, as far as Eddie can see, now that he’s really looking, Richie had nothing to be worried about in the first place. He’s got a softness about him, but he’s not unattractive by any means. And the way his shoulders and his back look from this angle is literally making his mouth water. Eddie is really pleased that he’s decided to keep the shirt off.

And then he goes and says something bold like that. And Eddie won’t admit it if asked, but it definitely does something to him, makes him burn with desire. And embarrassment. “I’m getting mixed signals here, Rich. First you want me to fuck you, now you want to suck me off. Make up your mind.”

Regardless, Eddie decides this is a good time to alter their positions again, seeing as this side by side thing isn’t going to work for anything. He stands, pivoting so he can kneel with his knees framing Richie’s hips. He lets one hand explore Richie’s body, from his neck to his shoulder, down his arm where he lets it rest on his bicep. His other hand finds its way back into Richie’s hair, where he’s pretty sure his hands belong because _fuck_ it feels nice. He kisses him then, a kiss that is more of a promise. A promise for more.

\--

Richie can’t help but grin, he really can’t. “We already established that I’m a selfish bitch,” he says, trying not to turn bashful under Eddie’s stare. The way Eddie is looking at him is… intense. Pupils blown, an almost animal hunger lingering under the surface. And oddly enough, the only thing Richie can think is that it’s kind of a shame that no one has ever slept with him because Richie knows - he just fucking _knows_ \- there’s a god damn beast hiding in there. He can see in the almost starving way Eddie is looking at him that Eddie has nothing to worry about as far as ‘being good’ or whatever it was he was nervous about earlier. Those are the eyes of a man who knows what he wants and knows how to take it. 

“Can’t I want both? What’s wrong with wanting your dick in me in any way possible?” he muses, and it would have been teasing if not for how breathless Richie already is. 

And then Eddie is moving, far too smoothly for a forty year old man with a still healing _impalement wound_. But Richie would never deny that it’s sexy. And Richie is suddenly scrambling to keep up. One hand touching Eddie’s chest, the other sliding up into his hair, head tilting back so he can actually kiss Eddie, melting under those hands. Hands that touch him so fucking sweetly while still having that demanding dominance that Eddie has always had but never seemed to notice. He has always thought of himself as weaker, a follower. But Richie has known since they were kids that Eddie has a dominant personality.

A firm opinion on everything that doesn’t waver, demanding voice, and powerful posture. Has he really never noticed how Richie had bent to his every whim? And sure, Richie had convinced Eddie to follow along on things, and Eddie had followed Richie’s lead when he was unsure of himself. But generally speaking? Eddie has always been someone who takes charge. 

It’s fucking hot.

Richie whines into the kiss, hand tangling in Eddie’s hair and tugging gently. He kisses back eagerly, desperately. More tongue and teeth than an actual kiss but he isn’t about to complain. And this position does nothing to hide that fact that he’s already so fucking hard. Too hard for such little contact, really, but it’s Eddie. Eddie is the one in his lap and this is every teenage wet dream he’s ever had come true. He figures he can be forgiven. 

He shifts, reluctantly pulling his hands away from Eddie. One arm wraps around his waist to brace him, and his other hand moves back behind him so he can shift himself further up on the bed. All the while, refusing to break the kiss, even as his glasses bump into Eddie’s face and push too hard into the bridge of his own nose.

\--

Eddie smiles through their kisses at first. Richie isn’t selfish, but Eddie wouldn’t mind if he was. He has probably called him selfish in the past, hogging the hammock, demanding attention from any passing person, always taking up too much space anywhere he goes. But looking back on all of those little moments, they were all just excuses. Excuses to get Eddie to be close or pay attention. And that thought has Eddie blushing again.

As their kissing intensifies, so, too, does Eddie’s longing. His ferocity. When Richie shifts them so they are more comfortably on the bed, it only gives him more of a chance to do as he wants to so badly.

So he does.

He breaks their kiss, much as he’s loathe to. But with it, he pushes both hands firmly on Richie’s chest to push him down to laying down. And seeing how Richie just _lets_ him is one of the most arousing things he’s seen in his life. And he can’t really dwell on that for too long or he’s never going to move again.

“Well, if you want a say in what happens next, speak now or forever hold your peace and all that. Because I’m getting some ideas of my own.” And they absolutely start with peeling Richie’s jeans off because they have been in the way for far too long.

\--

It’s so fucking easy to just let Eddie shove him down, to completely bend to whatever Eddie wants from him. And the more he does it, the more confident Eddie seems to get. And Richie loves it, is turning warm and pliant so quickly. Eager to keep going. He just lays there against the pillows, hands coming up to rest on Eddie’s hips and fuck, he’s still wearing those fucking shorts. Too small, tight across his thighs because of how he’s sitting. Riding up to leave him all but bare, and a thin material that leaves nothing to the imagination. Richie is overwhelmed in the best way possible. 

And _fuck_ the way he talks makes Richie kind of want to die. It’s demanding and dominant and Richie is sure he has never seen anything or anyone so fucking sexy in his life. “I just want you,” he ends up saying, voice cracking slightly. He gapes up at Eddie, suddenly unable to breathe. He finally gets to have this. He gets to be with Eddie and Eddie _wants_ to be with him and it was a lot to handle. 

He reaches his hand up, trailing sweetly over the edges of Eddie’s bandage, then further up his chest until he’s touching his face. His glasses are askew on his face, knocked off balance from their kisses. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care what it is, I just want to be with you. Fuck, Eds, you’re amazing you’re so beautiful.” His voice cracks as he speaks, and he knows he sounds… not like himself. Weaker? No, no weaker isn’t the word. He would argue he sounds a bit pathetic, the same way he sounds when he has a toy buried in himself because he had never really trusted someone else to take him the way he wanted. 

Submissive. He sounds submissive. 

He absently rolls his hips up, as if he’s hoping to convince Eddie to hurry up if he feels how hard Richie is. “C’mon, please, Eddie. Please, please I want you.” 

\--

Eddie is pretty sure he’s going to die. A demon clown couldn’t manage to kill him with a spike through his middle, but he’s pretty sure Richie talking like _that_ is going to do it. Fuck, he’s painfully turned on and Richie is just letting him do what he wants and it’s like every dream he’s every had but better because it’s _actually happening_.

“Fuck, Rich.”

Eddie leans down to kiss Richie again, unable to stay away. But he doesn’t linger long. Instead, he shifts farther down Richie’s thighs (noting that roll of hips and how hard Richie is under him). His hands are shaking slightly as he moves them to the catch of Richie’s jeans. He hopes he doesn’t notice, but he doesn’t suppose it matters if he does. It takes him probably longer than it should to get the button undone and pull the zipper down. Once he’s got it down, he finds himself in a predicament.

He’s sitting on top of Richie, so he isn’t going to be able to just take his jeans off without moving. But he really doesn’t want to move. But he _really_ wants to get rid of the last of Richie’s clothes. After a few moments of intense deliberation, he decides the jeans really have to go. He pulls them and Richie’s jeans and his boxers down together after moving out of the way enough, barely noting the penguin pattern on the boxers in his hurry to get them off.

Once the last of Richie’s clothes have been discarded, he hastily shucks his own shorts and briefs before climbing back on top of Richie and just… staring. For a long time. Because _damn_ Richie is stunning. All flushed and naked and just laid right out for Eddie. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, Richie. I can’t even… you’re so beautiful.” His words hardly have breath behind them because he’s so taken by the sight.

He tries to knock himself out of the staring, moving to do… something. And he realises he has no idea what comes next. What does he do? His face goes scarlet and he avoids Richie’s eyes, “What… uh, what now?”

\--

It’s a lot to handle. The way Eddie looks at him, the way he kisses him. Sliding down his body and dragging his jeans and underwear off. Richie works to try and help, shifting and rearranging to help Eddie drag his clothes off. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed, not at all, by how his cock is already straining. Not when Eddie is looking at him like that, when Eddie’s own cock is clearly pushing at the front of his stupid shorts. 

And then Eddie strips his own shorts and underwear off and Richie lets out a choked off, desperate noise. Fuck. Fuck, Eddie is so fucking beautiful. Firm muscle, not aggressively toned but clearly there. And Richie has a brief shock of shame at how his eyes linger on his cock. Brief and dulled, more a memory than a genuine feeling. He shoves that down, and eagerly reaches towards Eddie as he comes closer, eager to be able to touch him again. Grabbing at Eddie as he crawls back up his body. 

When Eddie speaks, Richie nearly sobs, head tilting back. He loves it, loves listening to Eddie talk to him like that, like he’s beautiful, sexy. Has Richie ever felt desirable? Has he ever felt like he was deserving of being wanted? He’d crawled into bed with a few people over his life, but has he ever felt like he was genuinely wanted by them? Thinking about it, perhaps he has always just felt like he was an easy lay for them. Attractive enough to not be the worst option, but not enough to be more than the simplest option for them. But Eddie? Eddie makes him feel, already, like he’s beautiful. Like he’s someone who is easy to want. 

And then Eddie asks what to do and Richie lets out a breathy laugh that is more surprise than anything else. He shook his head, reaching up to grab at Eddie’s face. Dragging him down into another kiss. Biting at his lips, licking into his mouth. Again, pressing so close ends up mashing his glasses into his own face but being able to kiss Eddie like this is definitely worth it. “Whatever you want,” he ends up breathing out into the kiss. “Touch me. Just do what feels right, fucking hell, Eddie, please. Please, please, Eds, anything."

\--

Richie drags Eddie down and he follows easily. Their kiss is hot and heavy and so perfect. Even with Richie’s glasses definitely in the way, pressing uncomfortably into both of their faces. It doesn’t matter. Richie needs them to see, and for once, Eddie doesn’t want to hide. He _wants_ Richie to see him. Not to mention, he’s pretty sure there is nothing in the whole damn world that is hotter than Richie wearing nothing but his glasses.

His instructions are touch, do what feels right. He’s not really sure what that is, but touching seems like a good start. Well, after he rolls his hips, seeking some friction from the position they’re in. That friction, naked skin against naked skin, sends waves of shocking pleasure through him. It’s a _million_ times better than anything he could ever do with his own hand, and all they’ve done is a bit of rutting against each other.

He isn’t sure he will be able to handle being inside Richie.

Yup, this is definitely going to kill him.

Eddie keeps their lips locked tight, but arches his back so one of his hands can explore the expanse that is Richie. His skin is hot and slick with sweat, which would gross Eddie out in any other situation, but he can’t seem to bring himself to really care. It’s _Richie_ , and Richie isn’t gross.

His hips have been rocking steadily, just chasing after that feeling of friction, when a thought strikes him. The hand exploring Richie’s chest dips lower and Eddie is definitely going to be sore in his back with the way he’s contorting just so he doesn’t have to stop kissing Richie. But he doesn’t care. His hand finds what he’s searching for, doing his best to wrap around both himself and Richie together, before slowly stroking them together tentatively.

\--

Eddie seems to take the instruction to just do what he wants to heart and Richie isn’t about to complain. It’s amazing, it’s so fucking amazing. Eddie keeps kissing him, deep and eager and _perfect_. It’s messy and both of them are eager. Like they’re a couple of teenagers again. And, if Richie had enough mental processing left at the moment to think about it, that would make sense. They had never had the chance to explore this before; when other teens were learning how to be with another person, he and Eddie hadn’t been. And it seems like they had never found anyone as adults that they wanted to be with, either. So this is really both of their first times getting to be with someone like this. So eagerly. 

Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s neck, his other hand tangled in Eddie’s hair and drags him close. He’s so distracted by it, by the way it feels to kiss Eddie like this and their hips rolling together, that he hasn’t noticed Eddie is moving his hand down with a real purpose until Eddie’s hand is wrapped around them both. He inhales sharply, unfortunately disrupting their kiss in the process. His head tilts back, back arching because _fuck_ it feels so good. His entire body tensing up as the pleasure shoots through him. 

“Fuck!” he gasps out, scratching at Eddie’s back as he rocks harshly up into his hand. It feels so good, feels way too good. He’s been with people before but it has never felt this good. He figures it had something to do with how he knows it’s Eddie holding him, it’s Eddie’s hand on his cock and Eddie kissing him and Richie doesn’t think he’s going to fucking survive this. 

“Eddie!” he continues. “Fuck, Eds, please! Feels good, fuck, your hands are warm, feels good I want you. I want you so bad, Eddie, please,” he whines, voice going up an octave and he knows he sounds so fucking pathetic. He knows he sounds… fuck, he sounds _slutty_ and he can’t bring himself to care because Eddie is naked and on him with a hand on his cock and Richie is pretty sure he’s going to come faster than he has since he was thirteen.

\--

By the way Richie gasps, Eddie is pretty sure he’s done something right. Or… at least good. If not right. And if it’s good, then it’s probably at least kind of right. So he’s gonna go with right. He did something right. And it feels good, too.

It feels good and Richie’s nails are going to leave long red lines in his back and that does _something_ to Eddie. The thought of being marked so thoroughly by Richie is… _fuck_. It’ll look way better than the scar there. At least that one doesn’t need to be bandaged anymore so there’s nothing to get in the way.

Richie is loud in bed. Which, if his mind were clearer, Eddie might think he should have expected that. He’s loud all the time, why wouldn’t he also be loud in bed? But something about the way he sounds, something about the tone, the pitch, the desperate scratch of the sound pouring over his lips when he looks so blissed out… It’s sexy. Eddie can’t think of any other word that even comes close to describing it. It’s sexy and Eddie wants to be able to always do that to him. Wants to always be the reason Richie looks and feels like this. _Sounds_ like this.

“Richie, baby, you’re so incredible,” he mutters before diving in to leave love bites along Richie’s collarbones. His hand has picked up speed, unable to control the pace with how on edge his entire body feels. He’s coiled up like a spring, with too much energy that’s just sitting on the edge of something but he can’t quite release yet.

He realises what it is he wants. “Rich, fuck, Richie, I want to be inside of you. Please. Wanna make you feel good.”

\--

Richie’s sexual history consists mostly of one night stands. Strangers he didn’t give a shit about, people he was only marginally attracted to, and the vast majority of his orgasms have come from his own hand. But, the point remained that he isn’t new to this. He isn’t new to the feeling of someone else grabbing his cock and laying over him. But this? This is so different, so much more intense than anything he has ever felt. Hot and _good_ and Richie can’t focus on anything other than how it feels to rock his hips up into Eddie’s grip. Holding on too tightly to him, nails digging into his back and shoulders and his back arching. 

And then Eddie is talking to him and Richie lets out a _pathetic_ noise. Somewhere between a sob and a keen. _I want to be inside of you._ A lot happens to Richie in the two or three seconds after Eddie says it. He thinks about the way it might feel, stretched around Eddie’s cock, fucked into with Eddie above him. So much better than any toy could feel. Hot and desperate and fuck, he needs it. He needs it like he needs fucking _air_. God, he can feel his own hole twitch at the thought and isn’t that something? Already so fucking desperate for it. 

The next thing that happens is aggressively embarrassing. Before Richie can say anything, before he can warn Eddie or try to ask him to maybe chill a little, his back arches again and he tenses up and he comes. 

Richie is a loud person, generally speaking. By default, Richie is _noisy_. He’s always talking and laughing and his voice carries. He’s been moaning and whining and keening the whole time, rambling out anything and everything that comes to mind. But now? Back arched and gripping too tightly at Eddie as his orgasm moves through him, he’s silent. Gasping for breath, but otherwise silent. 

He lets out a pathetic little whimper as the tension leaves his body and the _humiliation_ washes over him. “Fuck. Fuck, don’t say shit, what the fuck?” he breathes out, voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming. Hiding his face - glasses and all - in Eddie’s neck. His thighs are still twitching, still gasping for breath, still holding too tightly at Eddie. 

\--

A few moments pass after Eddie’s bold statement and Richie goes absolutely silent. Scary silent. Silent in a way that makes Eddie think he’s just fucked everything up completely. Because Richie is _never_ silent. Richie is not the type of person that can be forgotten even in a room full of people. So the silence is, frankly, terrifying.

At least until Eddie feels the wet warmth catch his thumb as Richie’s cock becomes impossibly hard for a moment before it begins to soften.

Richie just came.

Eddie isn’t sure what to do with this information. His mind goes completely blank. His hand stops moving, but he doesn’t remove it, frozen in place. His eyes are probably comically wide and in any other situation, he’d probably have started laughing right now. But he can’t even open his mouth, can’t move at all.

Richie holds him tightly, finally speaking again after his entire body becomes utterly boneless beneath him. He’s hiding, which Eddie is not a fan of, but he’ll give him a pass because he has to imagine he is horrifically embarrassed right now, he knows he would be. Even though Eddie’s mind is swirling, his dick is giving him a message loud and clear that what just happened was anything other than a problem. He’s aroused, and somewhere in his chest swells a feeling of pride. _I did that_.

Eddie’s fingers card through Richie’s hair. “Are you alright? That was… intense. And hot. And… fuck does that mean it’s over?” And maybe he could have worded that better but he really just wants to keep touching Richie and the blood isn’t making it to his brain nearly enough to be forming coherent, respectful sentences, rerouted to his dick as it is.

\--

Eddie’s fingers lovingly pet through Richie’s hair and Richie would have melted into it if not for how unbearably humiliated he feels right now. He had come from a few moments of Eddie stroking his dick and that is not great. Not his proudest moment, sexually speaking, and he kind of wants to sink into the mattress and never be seen again. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to look at Eddie after having come so soon. 

And the comments Eddie make cause some… conflicting emotions. Because Richie wants to preen under those compliments. Wants to whine at the way it makes his body heat up, makes the arousal try desperately to surge through him again despite how he’s nowhere near young enough to get hard again that quickly. He loves it, he loves the way Eddie tells him that he’s sexy and that Eddie likes it. 

It also shocks him, because he… he isn’t laughing. Eddie isn’t laughing at him or making fun of him. He’s asking if he’s _alright_. He’s worried about whether or not he’s okay and that is… not what Richie might have expected. And Eddie just...keeps talking. He says it was sexy, he thinks it was hot. And it’s strange, it’s so weird to think that Eddie finds it _hot_ instead of stupid that he had come so quickly.

Then Eddie is asking if it’s over and Richie feels _panic_ light up in him. He holds on more tightly to Eddie, as if terrified he’s going to try to leave. “No!” he gasps out. “No, no fuck, Eddie, please.” He has no idea what he’s trying to say, how he intends on making Eddie stay and convince him that he wants to keep going. Fuck, he’s fucked himself through multiple orgasms before and he certainly can handle Eddie doing it. “I’m sorry,” he ends up blurting out. “I’m sorry, fuck, don’t stop, Eds, I’m sorry.”

\--

Eddie isn’t exactly sure what it is he said that makes Richie cling to him like he’s about to turn into mist and fade away, but he supposes he can’t really complain. At least, not until Richie starts _apologising_ , as if he has anything to apologise for. Especially when the answer to his question implies more of whatever it is they’re doing. Because Eddie is really super down for whatever it is they’re doing.

Still, he also is familiar with what it feels like to be touched after an orgasm. “Rich, are you sure you’re alright?” He pets Richie’s hair again, twirling his finger around a curled lock. “You don’t have to apologise, you know. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Quite the opposite, if Eddie gets a say. And he’s pretty sure he is the only one that does in this situation.

With the way Richie is clinging to him, he has an idea that there’s a bit more to it than that though. He wants to look at his eyes, it’s always easier to read him when he can see those big eyes behind his thick lenses. But Eddie also doesn’t want to try to pull Richie back to do so, so he just keeps running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. We can lay down and cuddle or do something else or… I don’t know man, I don’t know how this all works, any ideas?”

\--

Richie hadn’t expected to panic like that. Hadn’t expected the fear that he’d fucked up so badly that Eddie would leave. But Eddie is quickly easing that fear with the way he pets through his hair and speaks too softly. Richie lets out a shaky breath, and he presses a kiss to Eddie’s neck. He relaxes slowly under Eddie, his hold loosening a bit until it’s less desperate. He lets out another shaky breath. 

“Been wanting you since I was old enough to know how to,” he says softly. “It was just a lot. Sorry.” He kisses at Eddie’s neck again, then drags him into another proper kiss. He absently rolls his hips again, giving a shaky little whine at the feeling it causes in his overly sensitive cock and he feels the desire rush through him again, even if he can’t do anything about it quite yet.

“I don’t want to cuddle, I want to get fucked,” Richie answers after a moment, unable to keep from grinning because this is… amazing. This is all ridiculous and beautiful and it isn’t going at all as smoothly as movies and tv made it seem like it would. And it’s kind of perfect. Richie is kind of in love with it, so happy to have this domestic type of insanity going on while they’re having sex. 

He keeps rolling his hips, breathy little gasps escaping him as his spent cock keeps rubbing against Eddie. It’s too much and Richie loves it. “Or you could let me suck your cock until I’m good to go again?” he breathes out into Eddie’s ear. “Maybe it’ll make up for not being able to keep it together.”

\--

A lot of things seem to happen after Richie finally relaxes a bit.

Richie apologises again, which Eddie really wishes he’d stop feeling like he needs to. He doesn’t. But it doesn’t seem like the right time to remind him for now, so he lets it slide and accepts the kiss Richie drags him into.

Richie starts rocking against him and making the most absolutely _sinful_ little breathy whiney noises. It’s obvious he’s far too oversensitive, but he’s not _stopping_ and Eddie finds he yet again isn’t sure what to do with that information. So he files it away in a box in his brain that he can unpack later, when 80% of his blood isn’t diverted away from his brain and toward his dick.

Richie offers the same two suggestions that started all of this. With an almost manic grin plastered on his face and Eddie falls even more in love. Eddie is not entirely convinced that attempting to fuck Richie right then wouldn’t actually kill him, and he’d never forgive himself if he managed to kill Richie. But sitting back and letting Richie do… _that_ seems… selfish? Unsanitary? Like one of the most intriguing ideas he’s ever heard? Even though it makes no sense to him that Richie would need to make up for anything.

And sure, Eddie is plenty aware that blowjobs are things that people do, all the time. And that people aren’t constantly walking around sick because of it. Or whatever it is his fucked up, brainwashed mind is trying to convince him will happen. He _knows_. But he still doesn’t feel like he can ask for that. Or even really allow himself to accept it. But Richie seems like he wants it so bad and the way he had whispered it in his ear like that… _fuck_.

So he tells the truth, “I’m pretty sure I might actually kill you if I tried to fuck you right now…” He can’t bring himself to even start a sentence involving Richie’s mouth around his dick, but he leaves it there and if Richie wants to… he won’t stop him.

\--

Richie is still embarrassed, but it’s difficult to focus on that when he can still feel Eddie hard above him. When they’re still pressed so close together. He wants this so badly and the way his own cock keeps rubbing into Eddie sends harsh shocks of sensation through him on just the right side of too much. He isn’t ready for this to be over, yet, and it doesn’t feel like Eddie is either.

He laughs at the response he gets. And it isn’t a cute or sexy laugh, one that would be expected during an intimate moment between two lovers. This is his ‘Eds, you’re dumb’ laugh and there’s really nothing sexy about it. He’s laughing, his face scrunching up from the force of it, and he kisses the side of Eddie’s face. “I think _killing me_ is an exaggeration, Eds,” he gets out through his laughter.

He shakes his head, lovingly wrapping an arm around Eddie so he can turn them around. Carefully, perhaps even too cautious of the wound on Eddie’s abdomen. He peppers sweet kisses over Eddie’s face as he moved them, as he settles between Eddie’s legs once he’s over him. His kisses trail from Eddie’s lips, up along his jaw, until Richie’s lips are pressed right by his ear. “C’mon, Eddie, let me suck your cock. Please? I want it,” he breathes out, quiet. Not sure if it’s too much or if it’s just not sexy - because he doesn’t quite believe anything he does is sexy - but it’s _true_ so that has to count for something, right?

\--

Richie laughs that laugh Eddie hears so often. It’s definitely out of place considering their current situation, but at the same time it’s exactly how it should be. Eddie is pretty sure he would think something was wrong if Richie didn’t laugh during sex. Even if it’s just to laugh at Eddie saying something stupid about causing death by sex. “It has happened, you know. People die during sex.” And he wishes he didn’t say that, but he can’t help when the words pour out of his mouth.

But then they’re moving and Eddie is underneath Richie and looking up at his big, dumb, beautiful face. Kissing his dumb lips. And, ok, Richie is anything but dumb. He’s perfect, really. Gentle and sweet when he needs to be and if they weren’t already passed the whole boyfriend conversation, Eddie might be suspicious. Instead, he’s just damn happy while Richie kisses all over him, doing something sinful when he kisses right up to his ear.

Eddie’s brain goes completely blank once again. He isn’t sure if it’s the words or if it’s just that Richie is saying them or maybe it’s just the way he says them. Hungry. Pleading. Whatever it is, Eddie is so painfully into it, aroused in a way he never thought possible. And, sure, he still thinks it’s gross and it’ll probably take some getting used to but… Richie seems like he really wants to. And it must feel pretty good with all the hype around it. Plus, it’s _Richie_.

Eddie lets out a noise he is embarrassed by immediately and will deny if anyone ever tries to ask him about it. It’s high pitched and needy and so damn aroused. “Okay,” he practically pants out, giving the permission Richie so desperately seeks.

\--

The noise Eddie makes is _beautiful_. It’s so perfect, sending white hot shocks of want down his spine and it makes him really wish he had it in him to get hard again this quickly. He knows he’ll end up coming more than once tonight, he has no doubt of that. And blowing the love of his life is a _great_ way to pass the time until he can get going again. He offers his own responding groan when he’s given permission, pressing a kiss under Eddie’s ear. Nipping at the lobe sweetly.

Then, he starts pressing kisses down Eddie’s neck, along the tendon there. Kissing and biting at his skin. He huffs an annoyed little grunt when his glasses keep slipping down his nose, and he pulls them off his face to toss them off to the side. He can worry about whether or not he’s just broken or scratched them later. Finally, he’s unburdened by his glasses - though, unfortunately, no longer able to actually see Eddie, which definitely sucks. Maybe he should consider contacts… Richie returns to kissing at Eddie’s skin. 

He keeps moving down, trailing along Eddie’s collarbone. One arm bracing on the bed as his other hand trails up and down Eddie’s side. He sighs contentedly against the hollow of Eddie’s throat, teasingly biting at his skin. As he continues down over Eddie’s chest, Richie pauses over Eddie’s nipple. Glancing up at Eddie’s face despite not seeing much more than a blur, he wraps his lips around his nipple. Tongue swirling around it, teasing at the little nub. Eager to do anything that might feel good for Eddie. 

He moves on after a moment, offering the same attention to Eddie’s other nipple. Then, he gets to the edges of that raw, red scar. Still brightly colored, still not entirely healed, still partially hidden by a bandage. His lips hover just barely over the skin, and Richie feels his chest tighten up. Even with how awful his vision is, the change in color on Eddie’s skin is obvious. “I love you,” Richie breathes out, trailing his lips along the edge of that scar. 

\--

Richie’s mouth should be illegal. Eddie’s been saying that since they were eleven years old, but it used to only mean that because of his dumb ‘your mom’ jokes or his excessive chatter. Later on, he secretly meant it because his lips were pretty and Eddie wasn’t allowed to kiss them. But now… now it takes on a whole new meaning. Because Richie’s lips are all over his skin and it is sinful and hot and too much and not enough.

Eddie mourns the loss of Richie’s glasses. But only for about half a second before lips and teeth are on him again and one of Richie’s arms is holding him up and Eddie can’t help but reach out and trail his fingers over it. He really _really_ likes Richie’s arms, fuck they’re so nice. Eddie kind of wouldn’t mind them wrapped around his neck -

And that’s a thought for another time.

Not only because Eddie is not in a state to even remotely be able to unpack whatever that desire was, but also because Richie just started sucking on his nipple and his brain has gone white with static once again. It feels _incredible_ and he’s pretty sure there are little whiny sounds spilling from his lips but he can’t care because holy _fuck_. The mind blank doesn’t let up when Richie swaps to his other nipple, repeating almost verbatim the attention he gave the first.

His brain fog doesn’t start to clear until Richie is moving on once more, landing at the edge of an angry red scar that is going to take years to properly fade into something less noticeable. Eddie hates it, it’s ugly and it gets in the way and it even makes Richie’s touches feel different. Muted. Not something he ever wants when feeling Richie. Still, he has to be at least a little thankful, because at least he isn’t dead, rotting underneath the wreck of that awful house, left behind and forgotten. “I love you, too.” Eddie’s free hand, the one not stroking lovingly over a beautiful bicep, curls into Richie’s hair again, scratching bluntly at his scalp. “Fuck, Rich, I love you so much.”

\--

Richie feels those warm fingers trailing over his shoulder and down his bicep and he loves it. He’s kind of really into how much Eddie seems to like his arms. He hadn’t been expecting it, really, but again, he has never really thought of himself as sexy. The way Eddie is touching his arm makes him feel good, though. And maybe he’s flexing his arm more than necessary to keep himself up and braced above Eddie, just because he’s loving that attention. He’s so overwhelmed by the feeling of having Eddie touch his bicep like that.

He lets out a pleased hum, almost a purr, when Eddie’s other hand curls into his hair. He presses into the feeling, hips rolling absently into the mattress and letting out a gasp at the oversensitive feeling. “You’re so fucking amazing, Eds,” he continues, lips pressing against Eddie’s skin again. Trailing along the edges of the scar as he continues his way down Eddie’s body. Slow but eager. Clearly adoring him, wanting to shower Eddie in the love that Richie hasn’t had the chance to give him up until now. 

He gets to Eddie’s hips, and he bites at the spot where his hip bone protrudes slightly. He kisses across the V of his hips to his other hip. Then, he goes down past where he wants to get his mouth so he can start kissing along Eddie’s inner thighs. Nipping at the sensitive skin, licking his way up. Lingering long enough to leave a hickey on the inside of Eddie’s right thigh and he loves it. Knowing it’s somewhere no one will see, so Eddie doesn’t have to worry about that but that they’d both know it’s there.

He glances up towards Eddie’s face again, struggling to try and focus his eyes to see him. Then he wraps his free hand around the base of Eddie’s cock and he leans down to lick a stripe up his cock, from base to tip, and he _moans_. Fuck. Fuck he wants this so bad, he has wanted this so fucking badly for so long and now he gets to take it. He wraps his lips around the head of his cock, tongue swirling around him and he moans again. A whiny, pathetic little noise and his hips jerks into the mattress. 

\--

Richie is back to talking again, which is fine by Eddie. Especially since he can’t seem to think long enough to make a proper word, himself, much less a whole sentence. Richie fills up the room with his voice for the both of them, even though Eddie punctuates it with little shy sounds of his own. He never really thought he would be noisy in bed, but Richie’s mouth does all these things that just makes the sounds pour from him like a broken fountain.

And then Richie’s mouth goes even lower and Eddie isn’t sure he’s ready for this. He _is_ but he’s also _not_. He’s almost thankful for the roundabout teasing way Richie maps out his body. And he _knows_ that bite mark is going to bruise and he _knows_ he’ll feel it for the next few days any time he moves. And he _knows_ he’ll turn bright red every fucking time and Richie will probably tease him about it.

Well, Eddie can tease Richie about how he’s looking at Eddie’s cock like a starved man about to have a ten course meal.

Eddie thought he had reached the peak of pleasure when he had wrapped him and Richie up in his hand together. He thought that was it, was sure that if he’d had about five more seconds he would have come just as hard as Richie. He was _wrong_. Because Richie touches him and he can’t even remember what it had felt like earlier because this is _so much better_. And that’s _before_ Richie’s mouth gets involved. Because that is an entirely new level of way too good and now Eddie is pretty sure _he_ is the one that is going to die. And death by sex doesn’t sound so bad if it’s with Richie.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Eddie’s pretty sure he should try not to rock his hips into the oh so inviting wet warmth of Richie’s mouth, but he’s also not so sure he can help himself. But he tries, best he can.

\--

Every noise Eddie makes, every movement, all of it is so fucking good. It’s so fucking perfect and Richie wants to keep being the reason for it. He wants to keep being the one making Eddie swear like that, be the one making him let out those desperate, breathy noises. Richie has never been with someone who makes him feel like this, who makes him want them this badly. It’s overwhelming in the best way and Richie just wants the refractory period of a younger him back. 

He lingers at the head for a while, wanting to drag this out. Wanting to make Eddie feel as good as possible for as long as possible. And maybe it’s a little selfish, too. He has wanted this since he’d been thirteen, since he had first started feeling desire and understanding what it meant to want someone. He swirls his tongue, pressing at the slit and moaning at the bitter taste it leaves on his tongue. Slowly, he bobs his head further down along his length, carefully swallowing around him. Experimentally, testing it. Seeing what Eddie likes, what makes him feel good.

And he can feel the tension in Eddie, can feel him holding back and Richie pulls off of him with an obscene popping noise. One that should have been gross but mostly just makes Richie whine. “You don’t need to be so careful, babe,” he says, carefully stroking along Eddie’s cock as he speaks. “C’mon, don’t you wanna’ fuck my mouth? Make my jaw ache for fucking days, Eds,” he groans, sinking down on Eddie’s cock again, further than he had before.

\--

Fucking hell.

Richie should hang up the comedian life. He should definitely be doing porn. The _things_ he says are so _obscene_. But they make fire and electricity race through Eddie in ways he’s never known before. Not to mention, he seems really good at this whole blowjob thing. _Really_ good.

And when he talks like that, how can Eddie think to deny him, even for a moment? So he relaxes as much as he can with how tightly he’s wound. Still experiencing that whole tightly coiled spring sensation. His hips start stuttering without rhythm and without control. There’s no pattern in it. But _god_ it feels so immaculate. So incredible. And with the way Richie’s tongue is moving…

“Rich, baby,” he pants, struggling to make the words happen but needing to get them out, “If your goal is to make me come, you’ve got about thirty seconds. Otherwise you have _got_ to stop being so fucking incredible at this.” It doesn’t sound smooth coming out, and it’s littered with gasps and moans when Richie swallows or if Eddie’s hips buck a little too hard and hit the back of Richie’s throat. But he manages to get the words out in the end.

Maybe this is what a religious experience feels like.

\--

Richie isn’t sure if he actually expects for Eddie to go ahead and thrust into his mouth, but he’d be a god damn liar if he says he doesn’t love it. He moans around him, desperate for him to keep going, loving the way it feels to choke on him. The head of Eddie’s cock pushing into the back of his throat, the way Eddie sounds, the taste of him on his tongue. Fuck, it’s good. 

And then Eddie is talking and he sounds so fucking wrecked and it blows Richie’s mind because _he did that_. Eddie sounds like that because of him. Eddie is turned on and he feels good and he’s talking about how he’s about to come and it’s all because of Richie. That’s hard to process, hard to really understand that Eddie feels this good because of him. Richie isn’t about to complain, of course. He swallows around Eddie once more, then wraps a hand around his cock and pulls off again. 

“Think you’ll be able to go again, tonight, if you come now?” he asks, voice a little hoarse and sounding _wrecked_. He loves it, though. “Because I still want you to fuck me. But I also want you to come in my mouth,” he says, licking teasingly at the head of Eddie’s cock again. Then, he immediately dips down to start peppering kisses along his pelvic bone, down to where his thighs met his hips, kissing over the mark he had left on Eddie’s inner thigh.

\--

Richie is definitely pornographic.

Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie doesn’t even know what planet he’s on, much less what year it is. He feels like this has gone on for ages. And yet it also feels like it’s only been seconds. It is both too much and not enough.

And Richie is asking him for more.

Eddie hasn’t come more than once in a single day in… years. Not since he was a teenager, he’s pretty sure. But Richie kind of makes him feel like a teenager. And not only because the last time they saw each other before walking into the restaurant in Derry was when they _were_ teenagers. But simply, something about the way Richie makes him feel, makes him feel young again.

He mulls over Richie’s question best he can in this state. It’s easier, with Richie now paying attention to his hips rather than assaulting his dick with his mouth. But it’s still hard because he’s still a fog of pleasure and want. And maybe it’s that, rather than anything rational, that leads him to say, “I can try.” Because Richie just sounds so good with his voice all fucked up from having Eddie down his throat and it just makes him want him more. Makes him want to give him whatever he wants.

He just hopes that feeling like a teenager will help his refractory period, at least a little.

\--

The answer Richie gets might have been amusing if not for how turned on he is. And sure, his cock isn’t hard again and probably won’t be for a little bit. But he’s still turned on, still so fucking aroused and he wants to get his hands on every part of Eddie all at once. His hands and his mouth. Wants to feel him, to taste him. Wants to live out every shameful fantasy he has ever had. And he _can_ because Eddie wants him, too. Which is still blowing his mind.

He groans, low in his throat, then nods. Right, okay. At the very least, they both get to come even if they can’t get it up again before the end of the night. Richie is pretty sure he’ll be able to, because his dick sure as hell is trying. It’s making one hell of an effort to get hard again and Richie is almost impressed. 

But he can’t linger on that, because he has a cock in front of his face and a beautiful man who needs to come. So he sinks down along his length again, swallowing around him and bobbing up and down. Moaning around him, his hips absently rocking into the mattress and it sends shockwaves of too much stimulation through him, almost painful but in the best way.

\--

Eddie is already exhausted. But not in the dead tired need to sleep kind of way he’s been so accustomed to his entire life. No, that’s the feeling he would get after a long day at work, coming home to a wife he didn’t love, and falling into bed just to escape the world in his sleep. That’s not what this is.

He’s exhausted in a bone deep kind of way. A his-muscles-will-scream-at-him-in-the-morning kind of way. The kind of exhausted that keeps you up, that fills you with the need to do more because you _aren’t finished_. That’s the kind of exhausted he feels.

And he is definitely not finished.

Not when Richie has his mouth around him again and his moaning around him is sending these delicious vibrations straight into his cock in a way he never thought possible. This time he doesn’t even bother trying to hold back his thrusts because he knows he can’t. It’s too good, it’s overwhelming in the best of ways.

The hand he somehow still has clutching at Richie’s hair tightens as his spring coils impossibly tighter. He can feel himself right on the edge of the precipice. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, just ready to lean forward and fall into the abyss. His whole body is still and there’s this odd dichotomy of not being able to feel anything and yet being able to feel _everything_.

Richie moans again and that’s it. The coil snaps, he falls off the cliff, his body spasms in what is undoubtedly the most incredible orgasm of his entire life. Right into Richie’s waiting mouth.

\--

Richie loves it. The fact that Eddie doesn’t seem to be holding back at all, is rocking into his mouth and Richie loves it. He loves the hot weight of Eddie’s cock on his tongue and the way his throat tightens up around him as he thrusts into his mouth. Richie keeps rocking his own hips, overwhelmed in the best way from the almost painful stimulation. It’s so fucking good. Richie is just on the right side of choking from it, and he works eagerly to meet Eddie thrust for thrust.

The noises Eddie makes are better than anything Richie has ever imagined. And he has certainly imagined it a lot. All the time, when he was a teen and again since they had met up again in Derry. Richie had buried his fingers deep into himself and thought about what Eddie might sound like more times than he can count but nothing could have prepared him for actually hearing it. It’s loud and wrecked and perfect. 

Richie swallows around Eddie, and he keeps swallowing around him as he comes. And he _moans_. Moans all the way through it because the fact that he has Eddie coming down his throat is probably the hottest thing to ever happen to him. Eddie coming into his mouth, pulling at his hair, moaning and groaning and Richie wishes desperately he could get hard again. 

He lingers there for a long time, swallowing around Eddie until his hips stop twitching. Richie finally pulls off of him with a gasp, swallowing down what’s still lingering in his mouth and struggling to try to focus on Eddie’s face without his glasses. “Fuck,” he gasps out, “fuck, Eddie, that was...fucking hot.”

\--

It’s possible that Eddie blacks out. He can’t be sure. He just knows that one minute he’s floating on the most intense high he’s ever known and the next he’s coming down from it. Still floating, still high, but soft and relaxed and _happy_.

He looks down with a soft expression, trying to find Richie’s eyes. He does, just as the man is pulling off of him and swallowing, looking back and saying how hot that was.

Eddie’s brain cycles through a lot of thoughts then. The most present and immediate one is how beautiful Richie is, even though he wishes he was still wearing his glasses because he doesn’t quite look like his Richie without them. The next thought is focused on the fact that Richie is _happy_ and that makes _Eddie_ happy. Especially knowing that he is the reason for it. Even if all he did was lay back while Richie did all the work.

But it’s the following realisation that distracts him. Richie just _swallowed_. And on one, immediate, hand, Eddie is disgusted. Because there are so many things wrong with that, so many potential transmissible diseases and unsanitary thoughts about that. But on the other hand, something Eddie never thought he could possibly think, it’s _hot_. Richie just, without question, swallowed everything he had to give. There was no objection, no hesitation. Something about that makes Eddie warm in more ways than one.

He still thinks it’s kind of gross, unsanitary. But he’s also turned on, if the way his dick desperately wants to get hard again, despite how recently he came, is anything to go by. Plus, looking down at Richie looking up at him from between his legs is… a sight to be seen, for sure.

He should probably say something. “Fuck.” Something other than that. “You better brush your teeth before you kiss me again.” Nailed it.

\--

Richie blinks a few times, taking a moment to process what Eddie says. Then, despite himself, Richie lets out a huff of incredulous laughter. Of all the things Eddie could have said, _that’s_ what he goes for? He mentions brushing his teeth? Richie wishes he can say he doesn’t believe it, honestly, but he absolutely isn’t surprised. He shakes his head, crawling his way up Eddie’s body again. Ducking his head to kiss at the curve of Eddie’s jaw. Or he tries to, at least. He misses, more or less pressing his lips to a spot near Eddie’s ear when he ends up too far to the side. Even so close, it’s difficult to see anything. 

“You’re so fucking amazing, Eds,” he breathes out, smiling too brightly. He still wants to have sex, he still wants Eddie to fuck him. But they’ll need a few minutes to gather themselves. Get their energy back. “Fuck, Eddie, I love you. I love you so fucking much you’re my everything. You’re so fucking weird and frustrating and I love you,” he continues, rambling absently as he presses kisses over his skin.

Carefully keeping his weight off of Eddie’s torso, Richie rests a hand on his chest. Tracing over the bandage, over the dips and curves of his muscles, absently flicking over his nipples as he passed them. Digging into nails into his skin and scratching, lightly. Not enough to hurt him, of course not, but enough to feel. 

He licks at his lips, lifting his head again. Staring down at Eddie despite not being able to see him. “....Few minutes to get into it again?” he asks, head tilting. “We’re old, Spaghed. Really is causing some issues in my sex life, not gonna lie.”

\--

Eddie can’t help but release a string of silly giggles at Richie’s reaction to his statement. Both because he still finds it hard to believe all the nice things Richie says about him and also because of the truth of the ‘weird and frustrating’ comments. “I love you, too, you fucking insane idiot.” Richie’s little kisses against his skin should be too much, they should be gross, but they aren’t. And as much as he absolutely meant what he said before, Eddie is also pretty sure he won’t complain _too_ much if Richie ignores him.

Just laying like this is perfect. It reminds Eddie once again how much he likes Richie’s hands. Long fingers, a little rough. But mostly he really likes how they feel running over his skin. The way he flicks across his nipples, where he’s just discovered how incredibly sensitive he is there. It makes him gasp slightly. And then his nails scratch into him, drawing deeper sounds, hums and pleased little noises.

Eddie nods in response when Richie speaks again. “Getting old is shitty. Should have done this years ago.” He smiles, though, because he can tell it won’t take that long if Richie keeps going like he is. “You’re pretty,” he mutters, not even registering what he’s saying. When his brain catches up, he blushes. In an effort to shift focus, Eddie speaks again, “Can you even see like that?” He holds up three fingers, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

\--

Richie hums, head tiling. He beams at the compliment, the back of his neck going red. He won’t ever get used to Eddie complimenting him, he knows that. But it’s nice, nonetheless. He blinks, then squints. He’s silent for a long moment, then nods. “Three,” he announces, then shrugs. “I think,” he adds, grinning. He grabs at Eddie’s hand, pulling it closer so he can kiss his fingers. Then, he leans down to kiss him again, only to miss again. Only half kissing him, but it’s nice, either way. He gets to have his lips on Eddie again and he isn’t about to complain about that. 

He sighs contentedly. He’s absolutely intending on continuing, but there’s already a bone deep satisfaction weighing him down. A happiness buzzing in his veins that’s better than any high he’s ever had. And he’s had plenty. Smoking constantly as a teen and experiments with one or two harder drugs in college that he’d immediately decided weren’t worth it. None of it compares to this, none of it. He could stay right here for the rest of his life and be perfectly happy.

“I love you,” he repeats, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck. He knows they’ll have to shower, after. He has his own come on his stomach and probably in his hair since Eddie had been tugging on it while he sucked him off. Eddie will make them change the sheets, too, before he’ll sleep in bed. But that’s part of what makes Richie love him so much. That’s just one of the things about Eddie he’s so endeared to. “I’m serious, though. As soon as you’re ready to go, I want you to fuck me. My biggest wet dream since I started having them, and it’s a refractory period away."

\--

Eddie giggles at the confident way Richie answers him, before showing how unsure he is with a shrug. It’s so impeccably Richie and it has Eddie’s whole heart blooming in warmth again. So much so that his brain doesn’t even register that he should be grossed out when Richie half kisses him. Instead, he just corrects his positioning and kisses him for real. And sure, tasting himself on Richie’s lips is not his favourite thing in the world, but he supposes he doesn’t _hate_ it too much.

He trails his hand down Richie’s spine, just letting it run over his skin and laying in the blissful aftereffects of their incomplete coupling. It’s an easy feeling, with Richie nuzzling into him, talking about love and going again. “I know, Richie. I’ll be good in… I don’t know. Half hour? Hour? It might be a while. What should we do while we wait?”

Eddie hates that they have to wait. If they were twenty years younger, they’d already be going again, he’s sure. And that’s what he wants. Not because he’s particularly interested in coming again, although that will be a definite plus. But, rather, he wants to make Richie happy, wants to make him feel good. And he especially wants to see his face through it all, every expression he makes the whole time. He wants it committed to memory to watch over in his mind for the rest of his life.

\--

Richie makes a soft noise when Eddie drags him in for a proper kiss despite how he had demanded he wouldn’t kiss him until he brushed his teeth. Richie kisses him eagerly. Deep and slow and excited, but almost lazy in a way. Content to just kiss him for a little while, to tangle a hand in Eddie’s hair and kiss him until his stupid old body can catch up to what he wants and let him get hard again. 

“Your pillow talk is abysmal,” he comments, nipping at Eddie’s bottom lip teasingly. He shifts a bit, still careful not to fuck up Eddie’s wound at all, and settles beside him. Tangling their legs together, arm wrapping tightly around him and dragging him close. He presses his lips to Eddie’s shoulder, then his neck. His hand continues trailing up and down over Eddie’s entire torso, up his neck and shoulders. Anywhere he can touch, really.

“...D’you remember when we were kids and we used to sneak out together and we’d just lay there and ask questions back and forth?” he says, perhaps a bit suddenly. Voice quiet but sounding too loud, which is something he feels always applies to him. Too loud, too annoying, too _much_. “We called it twenty questions even though it wasn’t guessing anything and we always went way beyond twenty.”

\--

Eddie laughs when Richie calls his pillow talk bad. “Yeah, well, you’re a trashmouth so I think we’re even.” He’s smiling the whole time he speaks, though. The way Richie settles next to him makes him grin. It’s so natural laying on the bed like this, together, wrapped up with tangled limbs. It’s almost exactly how they used to be as kids. With fewer clothes.

Richie’s hands feel divine traveling over his skin and he only hopes his reciprocating trailing hands make Richie feel half as good. He’s so entranced by the light feeling of electricity from Richie’s fingers that he almost misses the words, despite the sudden break in the almost silence between them.

Eddie hums in answer, memories flooding his mind. “Are you telling me that’s _not_ how you play twenty questions?” he asks, in mock shock. Then he smiles, planting a kiss into whatever patch of hair he can reach, “Yeah, I remember. You wanna play?”

\--

Richie snorts a little laugh at Eddie’s response. “Of fucking course I want to play,” he says. Because, sure, they still know each other better than anyone. They still, on a fundamental level, are disgustingly in sync with one another and know what the other is thinking or feeling at any given moment. But there’s a lot that has happened since they’d seen each other. An entire life they barely know and barely had spoken about because neither of them had been truly happy with it. And now, there are things they aren’t afraid to admit to because they’re together. In bed, naked and wrapped around one another.

And Eddie’s hand trailing over him feels good. So good. Richie still feels self-conscious, still kind of wants to hide behind a shirt or under the blankets or anything so Eddie doesn’t see the flub. And again, that’s so strange because he’d never been bothered by it before. He knows most people aren’t chiseled and that he isn’t _fat_ by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps it’s just lingering self-hatred. Left over from a childhood of parents who never wanted him and the fear of being abandoned and forgotten for any stupid little thing.

“Same rules as always?” he asks, thumb grazing over a nipple absently. “Respect the right to refuse an answer, wait at least one round before repeating a question the other has asked, and maybe this time we will actually adhere to the ‘no lying’ rule. I definitely lied a couple times when we were kids.” He hums, nodding. Questions where the answer was going to out him or his feelings, or when the emotional depth of it was too much for his adolescent brain to handle at the time. “Do you want to go first or should I?”

\--

Of course Richie wants to play. And is enthusiastic about it. Eddie is, to be honest, a bit anxious. There’s so much they know about each other. They know each other’s childhoods and traumas intimately, walked through them together. But a lot happened in the years they spent apart. Two and a half decades of life. College, careers, that whole marriage thing Eddie went through. There’s a lot and as much as he wants to know, he also isn’t so sure he does.

Still, he is disgustingly curious about Richie’s life. About the things he’s done, how he got to where he is. It’ll hurt, to hear things that he feels like he should have been there for, but he’s here now. He’s here now with Richie and they can talk about anything in complete safety.

“Same rules. And you better not fucking lie now. Nothing left to lie about.” He hopes. He plays with one of Richie’s curls absently while he mulls over a question and whether or not he wants to go first. Finally, he hums. “I’ll go. What’s your favourite memory from college?”

\--

This whole thing is probably not going to be the fun game from when they were kids. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to make him ache deep in his chest hearing about these things that he should have experienced with him. That he should have been right by his side for and he will never forgive that hell clown for making him miss it. He’s angry, if he’s being honest. He’s pissed that he has missed so much time, even if he hadn’t told Eddie he loves him, he still should have been by his side for the things he went through. 

But he can’t focus on that. He wants to focus on this moment, on the way it feels to curl up with Eddie. Hold him close and touch his bare chest while they wait to be able to go for another round. He huffs, nose scrunching up. “...Gimme a second to think about that one,” he says, eyes squinting as he thinks. College had been...interesting for him. 

“...I walked in late to a class,” he starts slowly, “and you know what I looked like in highschool. I didn’t look much different in college. Messy hair and my t-shirts and my flannel and I hadn’t slept in like three days and was working off a high from weed that had definitely been laced with something.” His nose scrunches again, and he shakes his head. “But yeah I looked like a mess. The teacher spent fucking twenty minutes bitching me out in front of this entire class. Then pulled that bullshit ‘since you have time to be late, what’s on the board’ bullshit.” His voice goes up an octave in a mockery of the professor.

He grins, kissing at Eddie’s head. “It was a science class,” he adds, and he figures Eddie would know where this is going. People had always been shocked by how intelligent Richie actually is, but Eddie knows and he also knows science is the thing Richie loves most. “...So I fucking destroyed her because what she had on the board was wrong.”

He hums, nuzzling at Eddie’s head, kissing his temple. Hands tracing absent patterns onto Eddie’s chest. “...Did you ever _want_ to have sex with anyone?”

\--

Eddie basks in the moment while Richie considers his answer. Soft and simple and nothing hurts. Everything is right in the world, even the things that are wrong. The story Richie comes out with is so _Richie_. It’s almost painful how Richie it is. But it’s not. It makes Eddie feel light. He laughs imagining the face on the professor when Richie pulled that.

Richie has always been wickedly smart. Always smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for. Mostly because he never actually paid much attention during classes. His undiagnosed ADHD got way too in the way. Plus, Eddie thinks he also probably got bored in grade school. Nothing was really challenging enough for him. He hopes college was better for that. He bets Richie thrived.

The question he’s asked in return shouldn’t shock him, but it does. Well, maybe it doesn’t shock him, but he’s not really expecting it. He considers his past, going back, evaluating every instance in which he even had an opportunity for sex. “I almost did, with Myra. Out of obligation. But I never wanted to, not really. Before that… I thought about it, in high school. With you.” It’s hard to say, even though it shouldn’t be. “But I was so damn repressed back then. And with the things my mother would say… But the thoughts were there.”

He takes a deep breath, clearing himself of the anxiety of his answer. Because the next words out of his mouth are going to be even harder. The hand that isn’t playing with Richie’s hair runs lovingly down his arm, curling around his wrist. He brings the inside of Richie’s wrist up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss there before running his finger over the light lines in his skin. The scars. “What are these from?”

\--

Richie nods along as Eddie answers, taking the information in. He had felt obligated to with Myra, even if he had never done it. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise him. Richie knows how Eddie is, knows that despite how he’ll raise hell for his friends, he isn’t much for fighting for himself. Taking what he wants, refusing what he doesn’t want. So the idea that he might have felt like he was expected to sleep with his wife and thinking he had to isn’t a surprise. It really isn’t. 

And then Eddie continues, saying he had thought about it in high school. With him. Fuck. _Fuck_ that’s something. Richie tries not to respond too obviously to that, but he knows his hips twitch and he isn’t quite able to stop the noise that squeaks out of his throat. He’d spent a lot of time in highschool trying to pretend he didn’t want Eddie. Getting himself off and biting his pillow to keep from crying out for his best friend then spending the next few hours hating himself for it. Guilt and disgust and a bone deep loneliness taking over until he finally passed out and the next day he would pretend it never happened. “...I used to, too,” he admits.

He waits patiently for Eddie to continue, and he’s shocked when Eddie trails a hand down his arm. Grabs his hand, lifts it up to kiss his wrist. And his fingers brushing over those fine white lines still littering over his skin. Oh. Oh, right, he had never told Eddie about that. Had known him for two full years while it was going on and he had managed to hide it from him the whole time. Scared of upsetting him, disappointing him. Being seen as not worth it. 

He doesn’t want to lie again. 

“...You’re not gonna like the answer, Eds,” he says, too quietly. He swallows thickly, then shifts his hand until it’s holding Eddie’s. “D’you remember Junior year? Homecoming. You… had a date and my parents had locked me out of the fucking house so I had to get ready at yours. And I… I watched you trying so fucking hard to impress her and I guess I was fucking obvious because… fucking… what was his name, one of Bowers’ lackeys. He pretty much said he’d tell the whole fucking school and I was already not okay and I just… left.” He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And I… I hit a point where it wasn’t even that I was upset or sad or… I was _empty_. I couldn’t… feel anything and it scared me and I needed to feel _something_ so I just…” He trails off, clamping his eyes shut to try and hold back the tears he can feel stinging at the backs of his eyes.

\--

_You’re not gonna like the answer._ He knows that. But he has to know. He _has_ to know. He squeezes Richie’s hand when he holds it, letting him know he’s there. Urging him on. He kisses his knuckles before he continues.

The story brings up… a lot of memories. He remembers, because of course he does. And, _fuck_ , there are so many things just so fucking _wrong_ with Richie’s version. But he’ll wait. He can clear it up when he’s finished. For now, he just listens.

When he mentions Bowers’ gang, Eddie wonders if maybe he has it all wrong. Maybe it was just an old injury. But his hopes are dashed almost immediately when Richie continues. He can feel the tears welling in his eyes, can hear the waver in Richie’s voice. For a moment, he lets the silence stretch between them when Richie finishes, just lets it all sink in while he tries not to sob. He was _there_. He could have _done something_. This is so much worse than missing out on something, not being there because of the stupid clown making them forget. No, this is worse because he _was_ there, all his memories still in tact. And he _didn’t even know_.

“I wasn’t trying to impress her.” He almost doesn’t even realise he’s speaking until the silence is already broken. “I mean, I guess I was, in a way. But only because that’s what I thought was the way to fit in. I wanted to impress _you_. It’s always fucking been you.” He feels a tear roll off the side of his face and he, for once, thanks whatever cosmic turtle that Richie isn’t wearing his glasses. He sniffs lightly, “I’m going to cheat a little and ask a follow up…” He hesitates a moment before continuing, “When was the last time?”

\--

Richie takes a shaky breath. He remembers it clearly. Too clearly, remembers realizing that he didn’t fucking feel anything. That he wasn’t able to feel anything, any anger or sadness or _anything_ and how fucking scared he was of that. The desperation to feel something, anything. The way his hands shook as he grabbed for the pocket knife Eddie had given him, how difficult it had been to inhale properly. Knowing he couldn’t let the others see, couldn’t let them know because he was so fucking scared of them deciding he was no longer worth the effort.

Eddie holds on more tightly to his hand, like he’s desperate to keep him close, and Richie lets out a quiet breath that might have been a sob had it been louder. He squeezes Eddie’s hand tightly, and his heart breaks when he hears Eddie sniffle. No. Shit, he knew this little game would get painful before long. He just hadn’t expected it to happen this soon. He reaches, absently, to try and wipe at Eddie’s face. He ends up pushing his fingers right into the hollow of Eddie’s cheek, but that doesn’t stop him from adjusting to cup his cheek properly and wipe the tear away.

He kind of doesn’t want to answer the second question. He kind of really doesn’t want to answer it because he _knows_ Eddie won’t like that answer any better. He licks at his lips, taking a long moment to try and get his shit together before nodding a bit. “...I’m closing in on a year clean,” he chokes out, trying desperately to make it sound like a joke but it’s too true for it to actually be taken as such. 

“...’Bout… ‘bout three weeks before Mike called me. To go back,” he admits, voice going quiet. Almost scared, like he doesn’t want to see Eddie’s reaction. Or hear it, as the case may be.

\--

That’s… better than he expected, actually. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He’s sad, maybe a little hurt, and definitely angry at himself. But it’s alright. It will be alright, at least. Another tear slips down his face despite his efforts to hold it back. He doesn’t want to cry because he doesn’t want Richie to feel guilty for telling him.

“I’m proud of you.” He means it. Every single word. He’s so damn proud. It’s hard, living is hard. Surviving is hard. Getting out of bed is hard. Eddie knows, he’s been through it. He knows what it feels like to be so utterly alone, how it feels to not feel. He hasn’t taken the same steps Richie has to try to do something about it, but he’s made his own mistakes. Still got a couple bottles of pain killers hiding at the bottom of a duffel bag from when he packed up his things. He hasn’t taken any in a while, but he’s thought about it. And trying not to when he actually needed them… it’s been tough. So Eddie gets it. “I mean it, Richie,” his voice sounds wet but he can’t stop it, “I’m so damn proud of you.” He takes another breath, hugs Richie close to him, tries to just squeeze him close for a moment. “You can talk to me, if you ever get that urge, ok? I’m here for you.”

He holds him tight for a few more beats before relaxing again, running fingers soothingly over skin. “It’s your turn.”

\--

Richie isn’t sure what he was expecting, really. Part of him was kind of expecting Eddie to just pretend it had never existed. Another part of him was expecting Eddie to leave. And maybe it’s kind of stupid of him to be surprised when Eddie holds on more tightly and says he’s proud. Maybe it’s obvious that Eddie would respond like that. Richie swallows thickly, then curls himself into Eddie, holding onto him like his life depends on it and it kind of feels like it does. 

After a moment, Richie shifts and reaches his hand up to drag Eddie into another kiss. Desperate as all of his kisses that night have been but in a very different way. This is fine, this feels okay. Sure, having Eddie as a lover and remembering his friends doesn’t cure his depression. But all of this sure as hell helps. He has a lover he adores, his career is finally shifting into what he had originally wanted it to be. His friends are his friends again. He’s happy and it helps fight back that depression so much better than he’s been able to before. 

“I’ll tell you,” he promises, noses nudging together sweetly. “Having my memories and my friends and a boyfriend and making my career into what it was supposed to be does wonders for keeping you from wanting to die.” His tone is mildly joking, not quite forced. But it’s clear that he means what he says. That it’s okay, that he has been doing okay. 

He settles back down against Eddie, shifting and tangling their legs even more tightly together. “This means I get to ask two,” he points out. He isn’t sure where to go, though. He has a lot of questions but he doesn’t know how deep he wants to get right after that. He sighs, then kisses at Eddie’s neck. “If you wanted to be a doctor, why didn’t you?”

\--

Eddie smiles when Richie says he’ll tell him. It’s not easy to talk about things like that. It’s not a simple solution that makes everything magically better. But it helps, and Eddie is glad that Richie is willing to trust him with it. Even with the mildly concerning follow up joke. But that’s just Richie being Richie.

Their bodies mingle so easily, warm and tangled. It feels so good to just lay comfortably like this. Richie says he gets two questions and Eddie thinks that’s fair, since he did cheat and all. So he just nods, going back to playing with the curls at the base of Richie’s neck.

Eddie considers the question. He thinks back to college, when he was making all those big decisions. He thinks back to his first year as a pre-med major, to how much he struggled. “I guess it was just… easier? I think… I think my mom had a lot to do with it, she never liked me going to my science labs, always freaking out about some accident causing a breakout in some disease. And having started to forget by then, I guess I just let her. Getting a business degree was safer.”

He thinks hard about the changeover period, getting his change of major forms filled out, the events leading up to it. “I remember I was in my biology class and I got in an argument with someone about something. I think it was…” Oh. Well, no lies, right? He takes a deep breath before continuing. “It was HIV. We were doing a unit on viruses and we were talking about HIV and AIDS and I… I’m not proud of that. But that’s what did it. The professor came to break up the argument and I filled out the paperwork to switch majors the next day.”

He sighs. “I don’t know that I would have been a very good doctor. I was so _fucked_ up by my mom and all those fake drugs. And by that time I-” he catches himself, “Being on my own with that level of psychosis was probably never a good thing for me. Facts didn’t seem to matter at that point. Control did. Control over myself and everything around me. Maybe that’s why I chose business, it was easy to feel in control because everything had hard and fast rules.”

Another sigh and he registers that he’s probably rambling. “Sorry, that’s… a lot.”

\--

Just like Eddie waited patiently for him, Richie waits patiently for Eddie to answer. Back to lovingly tracing his fingers over Eddie’s chest, writing out words and tracing designs onto his skin. Touching along the edges of his scar and bandage, reverent, like he’s worshipping it. And maybe he is, considering the scar means he had survived and is still there with him. He hopes that perhaps the gentle touches might ease Eddie’s mind, might make him feel better. 

The answer… makes sense. Eddie had gotten pretty fucked up from his mom and had been since they were kids. Richie had seen it and he felt guilty for never trying to help it but how the hell would he? What could he have done to make a difference? He clamps down on that thought, feeling guilt over it isn’t going to help now either. Richie lets the silence drag on for a moment or two after Eddie seems to finish, just to make sure he has nothing more to add, then Richie moves.

He lifts himself up, looking down at Eddie again. Dragging his hand up Eddie’s chest, his neck then to his cheek. Cupping his face, looking down at him despite seeing nothing more than a vaguely face-shaped blob. “You’ll be a good doctor,” he assures him. “Or even a nurse. You care about people, Eds. Maybe you don’t show it well, but you give a shit about the people around you and that’s what makes a good doctor. And if you want to go back to school and try again, then I’m right behind you okay?” And it’s true, he wants Eddie to do what he wants, and he doesn’t think being his manager is Eddie’s dream job. He’s good at it, of course. But that doesn’t mean Richie thinks he should settle for it. 

He’s tempted to ask what exactly the argument was about. But… well. He kind of doesn’t want to know. And he’s certain that Eddie doesn’t want to talk about it. Sure, they have their rule that they can refuse a question but neither of them like to use it. He’s pretty sure he can count the times they had taken advantage of their fifth amendment rule - as they had taken to calling it as kids - on one hand. Plus, these past two - or three, technically - questions have been rough. So he kind of wants to lighten it up a little. 

“When’s the first time you wanted to kiss me?” he asks, unable to keep from smiling as he says it.

\--

Richie is suddenly above him again, looking down on him with such fucking _love_ it almost hurts. Almost. But it doesn’t because it feels too nice, feels too good to have his hand running along his skin, cupping his cheek. He feels like maybe it _should_ hurt. That maybe it’s too good to be true and some proverbial shoe just hasn’t dropped yet. But he can’t think like that when Richie is looking down at him and pouring so much emotion into his words. And Eddie believes him because he can tell that Richie believes what he says so wholeheartedly.

Maybe he’ll look into going to school. Maybe nursing, it will be shorter schooling and a little less demand on his time. Maybe that’s something he can do. And he can probably keep managing Richie through that, with his help. At the very least, he could help vet a suitable replacement if it becomes too much. It all seems so doable here, in the quiet between them, naked and tangled together with so much love pouring between them. Everything seems possible.

When Richie asks his second question, Eddie laughs. “Of course you’d want to know that, you little narcissist.” Not that he has anything against it, he doesn’t. He does have to think for a bit though. Try and pinpoint the first moment, the first time that thought crossed his mind. “It must have been a few months after that summer. We were all hanging out together at Mike’s barn. It was such an ordinary day, I don’t think I’d even remember it if not for this. But I just remember Ben said something and you were joking around, poking fun at him. I spoke up to defend him, not because I really cared, but just because it meant I would be butting heads with you. It always was my favourite thing to do.” He grins.

“Well that devolved into one of our classic arguments that never actually meant anything. I remember Bev and Stan just staring at us with completely dead expressions. And then you came out with one of your stupid fucking fucked your mom jokes and the first thought that popped into my head was that if I kissed you, you would shut up.” Eddie leans up to capture Richie’s lips, just because he can. “I let you win after that because I was so embarrassed and I didn’t want anyone to notice because I didn’t want anyone to ask me why. I’m pretty sure some of the others did notice, though. I’m pretty sure they all knew way before we did.”

He smiles, proud of that memory now, even though he had been so ashamed of it in the past. It was a good time in his life. Happy. Simple. Even though it was after they fought It the first time, it was still so much easier back then.

A thought crosses his mind as he’s considering his next question and an evil smirk spreads across his lips. “What’s your favourite fantasy?”

\--

Richie doesn’t necessarily remember the moment Eddie mentions. It’s such a classic description of most of their interactions. Pointless arguments that neither of them meant, where they butted heads and pushed each other’s buttons. Said things they didn’t actually mean just to get a rise out of the other even though they both knew that’s all it was. Richie had always loved those moments, and he can’t help but smile because it has always been his favorite thing, too. 

He grins into the little kiss, pressing into it eagerly. Thumb brushing over his cheek, tugging him close to kiss him deeper. Hips absently rolling. That harsh shock of overstimulation is fading now. Not entirely gone, but not there enough to make him twitch and gasp. It feels good, either way. Rocking into Eddie as he kisses him, still a little overwhelmed because he gets to have this. Is allowed to kiss him and touch him and want him. 

He can’t see the smirk on Eddie’s face, but he certainly hears it in his voice. And he knows exactly what Eddie means, of course. There’s no doubt that he means sexual, that he wants to know what Richie wants in bed and there are plenty of good answers to that. Too many intense desires that he can’t choose between. But… well. That phrasing had been so vague. And what kind of person is he if he doesn’t fuck with Eddie a little?

Not Richie, that’s for sure.

So he grins, head tilting. “I don’t know, I’m pretty into the idea of this big dragon showing up and kidnapping me as food for its kids. It’s a pretty fun fantasy to think about. Like, I’m pathetic, this dragon might adopt me instead. Spend the rest of my life following around this giant scaley bitch calling her ‘mom.’” He hums, head tilting. “Oh, or maybe the one about aliens from an ice planet invading Earth and deciding they like it here because it’s warmer and just… I end up with a new roommate with a name I can’t pronounce so I call him Jeb. He won’t speak English well but he sure as hell gets his point across.”

\--

Eddie is excited to hear Richie’s answer. Really excited. Especially with the way he’s started rocking against him again and Edie’s starting to feel himself come alive a little again. They did the deep and depressing questions, learning a little more about each other. And now it’s time to go head toward finishing what they started.

And then Richie opens his big goddamn mouth.

Eddie punches his shoulder lightly with a frown. “Asshole! You know what I meant.” He tries hard to keep up his frown, his irritation at Richie. But he can’t. Despite everything, Richie is funny and makes Eddie laugh. So after a few moments of trying to keep his scowl in place, he starts devolving into uncontrollable giggles. He smacks lightly at Richie’s shoulder again. “Fuck you, dude. Answer the question, for real this time.”

\--

Richie laughs, bright and eager, when Eddie smacks at his shoulder. And when Eddie starts laughing along with him, he laughs even harder. His entire body shakes with the force of it. He had known what Eddie meant, of course. There had never been a doubt. But it’s too easy to fuck with him, he makes it too easy. And Richie has to do it, he has to fuck with Eddie because it’s what they always do. It’s how they have always been. Doing it here, naked and tangled up with him, is even better.

“What?” he asks through his giggles, peppering kisses over Eddie’s face now. “You asked for a fantasy so I gave you one. If that’s not what you wanted to hear then you’re going to have to be more specific,” he muses. Teasing, and it’s obvious what he’s doing.

He wants to hear Eddie say it. He wants to hear him specify that he wants to know about his sexual fantasies. Richie needs to hear it, his stomach already twisting up pleasantly from the thought of it. Hearing Eddie asking for his desires is making his skin prickle with static energy, makes want curl in his gut. He can’t wait, he really can’t. He kisses him again, and again he isn’t entirely on his mark. Though this time, it isn’t quite clear whether that’s intentional or not.

\--

He hates himself for laughing. Hates himself and loves it all the same. And he loves the way Richie laughs, too, the way his whole body shakes with it. Even if the whole situation is frustrating and infuriating. It still makes him happy.

Richie obviously knows what he meant by the question, that much is clear in the way he keeps negging at Eddie. He knows full well and he just wants Eddie to actually say it. Well, fine, if that’s what he wants.

Eddie knows his face is bright red. But hopefully he can play it off as flush from the laughter and their previous activities. Probably not, but he can pretend, at least. “Fine, if you want me to say it so damn bad. Let me rephrase for you, dumbass. What is your favourite _sexual_ fantasy?” He knows his face is only getting redder, but now it’s out there. And now maybe he’ll _finally_ get his answer.

\--

Richie can’t help but keep laughing, though the laughter fades when Eddie speaks. Something about hearing it makes a shock run down his spine and his cock tries desperately to twitch. It’s a little annoying that he isn’t quite there yet. That he can’t quite get hard again despite how desperately he wants to. It’s annoying and frustrating but talking to Eddie is good enough for now. Talking to him, telling him how badly he wants him. That’s okay, he’s sure he’ll be ready to go soon. 

There are a lot of possible answers for the question. There are a lot of things Richie could say in response. Super specific things he has thought about over the years. But, as he leans down, trailing his lips Eddie’s skin until he gets to his ear, the only thing he can get out is, “You.”

His laughter fades entirely, and he presses his lips next to Eddie’s ear, “I want you to wreck me, Eddie. I want you to hold me down and fuck me until I forget my own name. I want you to pull my hair and tie me up and I want you to make me fucking beg for it. I want you to tell me what to do and I want you to make me do it.” Richie swallows thickly, his hips absently rolling again, the desire coursing through him. 

“My biggest fantasy has always been you, Eds. Always,” he repeats, voice quiet and a little wrecked. Hoarse, like he’s already thoroughly fucked. “Anything that makes you happy, that’s what I want.”

\--

Eddie is pretty sure he’s prepared for Richie’s answer. Pretty sure he can handle whatever it is he says, even if it’s super gross and unattainable. He’s seen enough porn to think he can field any random kink of Richie’s without having too strong a reaction.

And then Richie answers.

Nothing could have prepared him for that. Nothing in the world, no amount of hyping himself up, could have readied him for Richie to start talking about all the things he wants _Eddie_ to do. Not some random person that would fulfill some kink Richie always wanted to try. But _Eddie_ specifically.

And not only that, but the things he says… It all comes down to Eddie being in _control_. Eddie taking the reins and _dominating_. And it would be a lie if he tried to say that doesn’t make him feel things. It makes his exhausted dick show some real interest again. It makes him think he might be ready for that second round pretty soon.

It also makes him proverbially blue screen.

It’s absolutely incredible how Richie manages to so easily send his brain into a static. A literal static in which all he can hear is that obnoxious sound that TVs make when they have no signal. Because that’s exactly what his brain is: a TV with no signal. His head devoid of thoughts that aren’t that sound. 

Richie sounds so fucking good. He sounds almost wrecked, he sounds aroused. He sounds fucking _hot_. “Fuck, Richie. _Fuck_. You can’t just _do that_ to me. _Shit_.” Eddie can feel his dick trying to show interest. He’s pretty sure it won’t take much to get him hard again, he’s close to getting there. “Fuck…” He drags Richie into a kiss, shoving his tongue into Richie’s mouth, trying so hard to feel like he’s connected to the real world. Richie has always been able to ground him.

\--

The way Eddie responds, the deep groan and the way his voice sounds when he speaks, it sends harsh sparks of want down Richie’s spine. He goes easily as Eddie drags him into the kiss, and the noise he lets out is truly _pathetic_. A high pitch, needy whimper. One might have thought he was in pain if not for how he desperately tangles a hand in Eddie’s hair and presses into that kiss like he needs it to live. He almost believes that’s true, almost thinks that maybe he _will_ die if he doesn’t kiss Eddie as deep and eager as he can.

His hips roll again, and he knows he’s going to be hard again soon. He knows if Eddie keeps taking control he’ll be wrecked in no time, because it’s what he wants so desperately. He wants Eddie to own him, to completely dominate him. “Please,” he gasps out between kisses, not even entirely sure what he’s asking for. Anything, everything. Whatever Eddie is willing to give.

He shifts, moving until he’s straddling Eddie’s hips. Careful not to put any pressure on his wound, still cautious even with how desperate he is. He grips Eddie’s face in both hands, kissing him again. Head tilting to deepen it as much as possible. “Please,” he repeats. “Please, Eds, I want you. I want you to fucking wreck me, I want to forget everything but how you feel, _please_.” He whines again, hips twitching as his cock jumps. 

\--

Richie is back to being pornographic and Eddie is back to being incredibly aroused. It feels like he went from 0 to 800 in no time. All it took was a little bit of Richie begging for him to be so ready and willing to go again. He’s not sure if his body is quite ready, but he’s pretty sure it won’t take much if he’s not. And he can feel himself trying, so it’s only a matter of time. And with the way Richie keeps making those _noises_ …

Eddie rolls his hips up, but with the way Richie is sitting above him, it doesn’t do nearly enough for him. He wants so much more. He wants everything. He wants to become one with the only person he thinks he’s ever truly loved. And he’s just ripe for the taking, all he has to do is ask.

Or maybe… demand.

The thought has desire coursing through him, making his nerve endings alight with electricity. It has him burning to touch, to have, to control. It’s a very special and new feeling that he’s never really had before, this _need_ to take Richie and give him everything he’s ever wanted in all the ways he’s asked for. This need to do everything he says by having him do everything _Eddie_ says.

It’s exhilarating.

“Richie,” his voice is low, a certain quality he’s never heard himself sound like before. “Richie, tell me what I need to do because I need to fill you up. I need you. I want you to feel nothing but me.”

\--

Richie allows himself to get completely lost in that kiss. He’s been overwhelmed by every kiss he’s gotten from Eddie, to be perfectly honest. A brief moment where he wonders if perhaps he’s actually gone insane and these are just hallucinations. Not quite able to really believe he finally gets to have Eddie the way he has wanted even when he couldn’t remember him. It’s all a lot to handle. But this kiss brings it to a whole new level. This deep, desperate kiss. With Eddie dragging him close and tugging his hair and it’s all so fucking perfect.

Then Eddie is speaking, and Richie loses his _fucking_ mind. He inhales sharply, body tensing up as his cock goes from mild interest to ‘teenager with a porn magazine’ in a handful of seconds. He lets out another truly pathetic noise, arguably worse than the first had been, and his hand tugs at Eddie’s hair without really meaning to. “Fuck!” he gasps out, struggling to catch his breath. Breathing in these whiny little pants, his thighs trembling and his chest tight.

Eddie seems to be taking to this ‘control’ thing really well. Like a fish to fucking water. And Richie kind of isn’t surprised. He’s always had such a dominant personality, and it had always been such a huge shock to Richie to see the way he had let his mother control him. Because Eddie has always had such a strong presence, a strong opinion on everything. A solid viewpoint that no one can change and he easily tells people what to do and how to do it so the fact that he’s doing so now and doing it well shouldn’t be a surprise. 

Richie whines, low in his throat, and he fumbles to get off of Eddie so he can get to the bedside drawer. His hands are trembling but he’s on a fucking mission and he isn’t going to let overwhelming arousal cause him to slow down. He grabs the bottle of lube from the drawer, and almost ends up face first in the pillows in his haste to be over Eddie again. He drops the lube down onto the bed beside him, then surges down for another messy, desperate kiss. Licking and biting and probably enough to gross Eddie out. 

“A man doesn’t need to be fingered any more than a woman does to get fucked but I’m not gonna tell you no if you want to,” he gets out between kisses. He knows Eddie, though. Eddie will overthink it, will want to stretch him out as if an asshole is a turtle neck that’s a little too tight. Too worried about hurting him, which Richie can’t deny he appreciates. And really, while he knows that whole ‘need to stretch’ is bullshit, he also can’t deny that the idea of Eddie fingering him is too good to pass up. “All you need is lube and I can tell you if you need to slow down and just… fuck, Eddie, please just fuck me.” 

\--

The way Richie responds is intoxicating. The little tug at his hair is a delicious kind of almost pain that Eddie finds he quite enjoys. And those _sounds_. Eddie is pretty sure he could get drunk just from hearing the sounds Richie makes when he feels good, when he wants. He could absolutely get used to this in a way that he’ll never truly be _used_ to it. The thought makes him grin with something between contentment and desire.

When Richie crawls away from him, he has a split second in which this dreadful sinking feeling settles in his chest. But it’s gone quick as it came when he realises that Richie isn’t suddenly _leaving_ him, he would never do that and Eddie knows it but emotions sure do have a mind of their own. It only takes him a few moments to figure out what it is Richie went for. The bottle has Eddie’s whole body alight with arousal again and this time, he definitely feels his dick reacting, slowly coming back to life. Even with Richie’s definitely too messy kiss.

Eddie is desperately answering every kiss Richie gives, even as Richie is trying to instruct him. The irrational part of his rational brain supplies him with the level of unsanitary that this is going to be. And it absolutely bothers him. He can feel himself sweating in his sudden anxiety. But he does his best to shove that part of himself away because he _wants_ this. He wants to make Richie feel good and he wants to be inside of him. He can do this.

They keep kissing desperately, like they’re desert parched and the other’s mouth holds the water to save them. If Eddie gives it any thought, he would find it disgusting, but he doesn’t because he’s too in the moment thinking about how this is _Richie_ he’s kissing. And how badly _Richie fucking Tozier_ wants him. That pretty much drowns out any considerations of how gross all of this is. He can think about that… later. Right now, he moves his hands to Richie’s hips, running them over his ass and down the backs of his thighs, then back up again. Then, showing off strength he might be a little bit not quite healed enough for but he doesn’t care, Eddie throws Richie to the side to swap their positions. He plants himself between Richie’s legs, leaning down for a kiss as his hand closes around the bottle of lube. “Ready?”

\--

The way Eddie kisses him back, meeting every one eagerly and happily, makes warmth bloom in Richie’s core. It makes him hot and needy and his cock tries to twitch. Back to being oversensitive, and only half hard but hey, that’s better than nothing. And they have time, they have all the fucking time in the world. Together, no stupid space clown to threaten their memories, their lives, their happiness. Richie gets to wake up every morning with Eddie, and when they will inevitably have mornings they can’t be together, they can simply call one another. 

Richie hadn’t been expecting Eddie to flip him. Not least because Eddie is still healing, still probably in pain from doing it. And a lot of things happen to him at that moment. Shock rushes through him, body tensing up from it. And the _desire_ rocks his entire body. A high pitched and desperate moan rips out of his throat as his arms tighten up around Eddie’s neck. Fuck, fuck this is a lot, that’s so much and yeah, he’s definitely hard now. 

But the first words out of his mouth aren’t sexy, not at all. He doesn’t moan out Eddie’s name or any sort of confirmation. He doesn’t swear or beg Eddie to touch him. Hell, his hips don’t even roll up into Eddie like he wants them to. His first reaction is to release Eddie so he can reach his hand down to gently touch the gauze and bandage still firmly attached to Eddie’s abdomen and he stares up at Eddie with wide, unfocused eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. He still sounds wrecked, still sounds desperate and needy and his cheeks are flushed, hair a mess. Eyes glazed over too much to be from being unable to see. But his first thought is Eddie, his well being. Whether or not his healing body was able to handle that. His other hand, the one not gently touching Eddie’s wound, slides down from behind his neck to cup his face. Thumb brushing over his bottom lip, his touch gentle and loving. 

\--

Oh.

That’s really sweet. Eddie smiles softly down at Richie, so worried despite all of the other things that he’s surely feeling. Richie’s always been like that, no matter what. In every situation, Richie always had to make sure Eddie was alright. Always sought him out and wanted to protect him. It was one of those things that made Eddie fall in love with him in the first place.

He turns his head into Richie’s hand, kissing at his fingers. “I’m good, might be sore later, but right now, I’m good. Better than good.” He smiles again. “Promise I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

Eddie kisses at Richie’s fingers again, then moves to kiss his palm, then trails kisses all the way down his arm and up his shoulder, to his neck. “Now, are you gonna let me continue or are you gonna find something else to worry about?” It sounds strange, coming from Eddie, the master of worrying about everything.

\--

Richie relaxes when Eddie answers. Sore. He’ll be sore but literally anything he does makes him sore, so. And it’s kind of difficult to focus on that now that Eddie has said he’ll be okay because now his brain is busy trying to focus on the fact that Eddie had flipped him with an impressive show of strength considering how hurt he still is and the fact that they’re fucking _forty_. It’s difficult to keep focusing on how worried he might be because he’s so fucking turned on, so fucking overwhelmed by how sexy he is. Overwhelmed by how fucking perfect he is. 

Eddie starts trailing kisses down his hand, down his arm, and Richie makes another little whining noise. Squirming under Eddie, hips wriggling as he tries desperately to keep in place. “Fuck,” he gasps out, sounding wrecked. Voice a little hoarse, eyes going lidded. Still desperately trying to look at Eddie’s face even though he knows he won’t see him but he wants to. He reaches up with his second hand to cup Eddie’s face with both his hands and he pulls him down to kiss him.

“The only thing I’m thinking about right now is you fucking me,” he says. “Fuck, please, Eds, I need you. Please, I want you to fuck me. Finger me. Something, wreck me please. I know you can, Eds, you’ve always been stronger than you think. You’ve always been so in control of everything and I want it.” He groans, biting at Eddie’s lips. He’s rambling without really thinking about what he’s saying. It’s a habit he has when nervous, of course, but right now it isn’t nerves. Right now it’s just desperately trying to release the energy in him. 

“Fuck. Fuck, Eddie, d’you need me to talk you through it?” he asks, head tilting back a bit. “That’s not making fun of you I’m serious,” he adds. 

\--

Eddie likes the way Richie starts to ramble. It’s easy to tell what he’s feeling because it all pours out of his mouth so easily. Not to mention the words he comes up with are absolutely filthy and they do a strange combination of things which make his body warm and his face hot and his cock hard. Plus, it’s really kind of cute. In a really sexy kind of way.

He digests Richie’s question. He wants to not need the help, wishes he just knew. But he doesn’t know, he has no experience. So after a moment, he nods. “Yeah, yeah that would be good.” He leans down for yet another kiss. He’s never going to get sick of kissing Richie, he knows. “Tell me how to make you feel good.”

\--

Richie whines, pressing too eagerly up into the kiss. Needy and desperate and fuck, having Eddie talk to him like that is doing a lot. Sure, he isn’t particularly filthy, but his voice is deep and hoarse and he’s asking how to make him feel good and it’s better than every wet dream he’d ever had combined. Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s neck, holding him close to keep kissing him as his other hand raises up above him, gripping at the headboard as if needing it to ground himself. His hand tightens around it, every muscle from his fingers all the way up to his shoulders tensing and flexing. 

“Lube,” he gasps out. “Fuck. The lube. On your fingers, touch me. Go...shit, go slow. My ass isn’t a fucking sweater that needs to be broken in but going too fast can hurt,” he explains, breathless and stretching his legs further apart like he thinks perhaps Eddie needs to be convinced to come closer. Richie’s head falls back against the pillows, exposing his throat to Eddie as he gasps for breath. His cock twitches just at the thought of Eddie touching him, and he whines low in his throat. 

“C’mon, Eds,” he encourages, hips shifting without him even realizing it. “C’mon, wanna feel you, Eds, please. Please, you don’t know how bad I want this.”

\--

The way Richie’s muscles move as he grips the headboard shouldn’t turn Eddie on as much as it does, but here they are. His arms are just… really really nice. His arms, his shoulders, his back. Eddie could go on and on about each and every detail of Richie that makes him absolutely mad with want, but why bother when he has the man spread out for him on the bed they share?

He tries to follow Richie’s instructions. He pumps some of the lube onto his hands and immediately scrunches up his nose in disgust. It feels… slick. Almost like liquid velvet on his fingers. Too slippery. Which is the point. Still, it distracts Eddie for a moment, causing him to rub the fluid in his hand for longer than is probably socially acceptable in such a situation, trying to get used to the feel of it. Finally, he shakes himself out of the trance he seems to have fallen into.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Eddie mutters in response to Richie’s encouragement. He’s just as impatient, as ready, even as he struggles to figure out just how all this works. So he starts somewhere almost familiar, trailing a slick finger from the underside of the tip of Richie’s cock down along the length of him. He watches closely for Richie’s reactions as his finger goes lower, slowly, until he’s where he’d always meant to go.

It’s daunting, to press his index finger against the tight ring of muscle. He only hopes he doesn’t hurt Richie, he really doesn’t want to hurt him. Richie said going too fast can hurt, so Eddie tries his best to go achingly slow as he presses in firmly. It takes more effort than he would have imagined, but after he breaches with the first bit of his finger, the rest is easy.

His finger sinks in down just passed his second knuckle, before he pulls it back just as slowly, giving a bit of a twist, until just the tip remains inside, then pushes forward once more. “Is this ok?”

\--

The way Eddie looks at him is absolutely intoxicating. The way his eyes are glazed over and lidded, the way he focuses on every little detail of him. Richie grips more tightly at the headboard, which causes his arm to flex further. “Fuck, c’mon Eds, please,” he groans, whiny and impatient and all but writhing underneath him.

He gasps when Eddie’s finger touches teasingly at his cock, and he lets out a barely there noise as his finger trails down. It isn’t enough and too much and fuck, no one has ever touched him like this. No one has ever teased like this. His one night stands had been good, sure, but they had been quick and rough and no one had ever even tried to take the time to wreck him like this. 

And then Eddie’s finger is pressing at his hole and Richie _sobs_. Gripping so tightly at the headboard that his hands hurt, head thrown back. He can feel himself twitch, the muscles fluttering and clenching at the sensation. Not new, exactly, since Richie has done this to himself plenty of times, but certainly different. Because it’s Eddie. This is Eddie pressing into him, it’s Eddie’s finger breaching him and Richie’s toes curl and his back arches as he struggles to take a proper breath. 

“Yeah!” he gasps out. “Yeah, yes, fuck, so good, Eddie, please don’t stop.” He swallows thickly, writhing under Eddie. 

\--

Eddie could watch Richie react forever. He could sit here, slowly moving his finger in and out of him for the rest of his life happily just to watch the way Richie moves, hear how he sounds, feel the way he tightens around his finger.

That’s going to feel so fucking good around his dick.

That thought alone makes him moan softly, pressing in a little deeper and faster than he had before. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ever want to, if he’s perfectly honest. Not with how good Richie looks and how he’s begging so sweetly. He could definitely get used to this.

Eddie’s free hand grabs at Richie’s thigh and pushes his leg out even wider. There’s something incredibly erotic about this. About how vulnerable and open Richie is right now. It’s intoxicating and delicious. He pulls his finger almost all the way out again but this time, he adds a second before pushing slowly back in again. He hopes there’s still enough lube, considers adding more. Instead, he looks to Richie. “Still good?”

\--

Richie whines, back arching as he tries to push back onto Eddie’s fingers. Fuck. He’s done this to himself, of course. He’s been fingering himself for years, and he’s used toys on himself. He has a drawer in his bedside table with a couple different kinds of vibrators and one or two normal dildos. This isn’t a _new_ feeling for him. Stretching himself out is far from a new feeling, fuck the first time he had fingered himself he’d just been sixteen, terrified of getting caught and scared that doing it would make it too real but he’d needed something more than what grabbing his cock had been doing. 

But this? This is so _different_ somehow. Eddie’s fingers are thinner than his, not quite as long. But they feel so much better, and maybe that’s because he knows it’s Eddie, because he knows it’s the man he’s been in love with for literal decades. Maybe that’s what makes this feel so unbelievably perfect. He feels himself clench around Eddie’s fingers, and he nearly sobs. 

“Fuck, Eds, please, s’good don’t stop, please,” he begs, already sounding so fucking wrecked and he isn’t at all ashamed. He raises his other hand up to grab the headboard, his arms flexing all the way down to his shoulders, head thrown back as he gasps for breath, toes curling as he rocks down against Eddie’s hand. 

\--

Eddie literally can’t handle the way Richie looks with both his hands gripping the headboard, stretched out with those _arms_ like _that_. He groans in this half exasperated, half aroused way. It’s not fair how good Richie looks, how good he sounds. It’s not fair.

It’s strange, having never done this particular act to himself, he has no idea what feels good. He has a vague idea just based on his general knowledge of anatomy. He knows that there’s a spot that apparently feels extra good, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t found it yet. But he wants to, wants to see what that does to Richie, how it makes him feel. So he starts exploring a bit with his fingers.

He spreads them apart a bit as he pulls them out, trying to touch more. Artificially making his fingers bigger than they are. He twists his wrist as well, trying to find that spot he’s heard about. It’s easy to make a rhythm with the way Richie’s hips are meeting his hand thrust for thrust, so he doesn’t even have to work that hard at it. He’s still going slow, though, terrified of hurting Richie. That’s the very last thing he wants.

The next time he drags his hand back, pulling out, he curves his fingers, just a little. It’s somewhere between conscious thought and total accident. It makes the pads of his fingers _drag_ along Richie’s walls.

\--

Richie’s sense of time disappears. He has no fucking idea how long he’s been rocking against Eddie’s fingers but he isn’t about to ask him to stop. He wants this, so fucking bad. It feels so fucking good, Eddie stretching him out. His fingers stretching and thrusting into him and fuck, Richie is going to die. His hands are kind of beginning to hurt from how hard he’s gripping at the headboard, but it helps him push down onto Eddie’s fingers. Every thrust of Eddie’s fingers make Richie groan and whine and sob, overwhelmed, his thighs trembling. 

And then, Eddie’s fingers crook and Richie inhales sharply and white hot sparks of pleasure shoot through him. His back arches harshly and he lets out a _sob_. “Eddie!” His voice cracks harshly, and his toes curl again. “Fuck, fuck, Eds, please please, right there, do that again!” he begs, breathless and eager and rocking down erratically against Eddie’s fingers. It feels good, so good. His nerve endings lighting up with static in the best way and he’s suspecting he’ll come quickly, again. 

He shifts a little, his leg lifting up to wrap around Eddie’s thigh to drag him even closer. “Please, Eds, please I need you! Fuck me, fuck me please, wreck me. Fuck, fuck I want you, Eddie, please I love you, fuck me, please,” he gasps out, rambling and not entirely aware he’s speaking. “Please, please I’ll be good, please just fuck me!” 

\--

The way Richie reacts is something bordering on overwhelming. He’s practically screaming as he moves in every way he seems to be able to, trying to chase after what Eddie had done. The power trip that gives him is such a rush. It sings through his body, making it feel as though his very skin is vibrating with it.

He plunges back into Richie and tries to replicate that same movement, curling his fingers just so, pulling slowly along his walls. Just to hear Richie fall apart like that, to see him stiffen and writhe. He’s so goddamn beautiful. Never has Eddie felt such an urge, such a strong longing, to do _anything_.

He wants to be inside of him.

And Richie is positively begging for it. He is actually _begging_ for it. Eddie can’t really say why exactly that thought has him so hot, physically _hot_ , but it does. And he’s not really willing to question it at this moment in time. Because, right now is a time of action. Of doing and of experiencing. “Fuck,” he mutters, still lazily thrusting his fingers into Richie while trying his best to keep dragging along his prostate. “Can I? I mean… Is it too soon? It won’t hurt, will it?” He lets out a shaky breath, “I want to fuck you so bad, Rich…”

\--

Richie can’t catch his breath, he can’t inhale properly as Eddie thrusts his fingers into him. It feels so fucking good, it feels overwhelming and too much and not enough all at once. Eddie is over him, is fingering him like he’s never wanted anything else. Richie’s back keeps arching up off the bed, absolutely _writhing_ on Eddie’s fingers. Gasping for breath as Eddie presses into his prostate over and over.

“Yeah!” he chokes out. “Please, please Eddie, please fuck me,” he nearly sobs, tears actually welling up in his eyes. Not enough to overflow, not enough to really be considered _crying_. He finally releases the headboard, having to pry his own fingers off the railings, and reaches blindly for Eddie. Hands trembling, his cock twitching and _dripping_ as he tries to reach any part of Eddie. 

“Please, Eddie, I’ll be good for you, Eds. I was good, I tried to be good, please fuck me,” he gasps out, not entirely aware of what he’s saying. But this is new for him. Letting himself fall under like this, letting himself go so pliant and easy under someone else. He has never trusted anyone this much, has never let himself be so fucking submissive for anyone but he trusts Eddie with his life and wants to trust him with this part of him, too. 

“I’ll do whatever you want me to, Eddie, please. Please, please I need you to fuck me, I want you so much I want to be destroyed. I want you, I love you so much. I did good, didn’t I? Eddie, Eds, I wanted to be good for you.” He lets out a little sobby, pathetic noise. 

\--

Eddie has been through a lot in his life. He’s faced a demon clown _twice_. He experienced the hell that was his mother for most of his life, and subsequently the hell that was his ex-wife. He spent years in a job he hated. He pined after his best friend without even knowing it for thirty years. He’s experienced a lot of things, most of them bad or at least miserable.

Nothing could have prepared him for the way Richie is begging for him right now.

Eddie pulls his fingers free, wiping them automatically against the sheet he knows he’ll make them wash before bed anyway. He shuffles closer to Richie, leaning down over him to kiss at his chest, up his collarbone, along his neck, and up to his ear. “You’re so good for me, Rich. So fucking good.” His voice is breathless and it feels like he can’t quite make it do what he wants. But the words make it out.

He pets at Richie’s hair with his clean hand. “Fuck, Rich, I love you so much.” The words kind of spill from him unbidden. Bubbling up like a pot left to boil over. And he doesn’t bother trying to stop it. One tiny fraction of rational thought breaks through it all. “Rich, Rich. Do I need… should we use a condom or something?”

\--

Richie whines when Eddie pulls his fingers out of him, and he can feel himself clenching around nothing. Desperate for more, feeling too empty and he wants more. He tilts his head back, pressing up into those sweet kisses up his chest. Too far gone to even remember to be embarrassed by his stomach. He gasps for breath when Eddie speaks to him, assuring him that he’s been good and he whines under the praise. 

He grips desperately at Eddie as soon as he can get his hands on him, struggling to catch his breath and those tears in his eyes finally well over when Eddie says he loves him. “Fuck,” he gasps out, dragging Eddie down to kiss him. Messy, desperate. Too fucked up to really kiss him with any sort of finesse but wanting to get their mouths together, anyway. He tangles a hand in Eddie’s hair, tugging pathetically as he whines into his mouth.

“Tested when I left rehab,” he gasps out. “I’m clean, I want you to come in me, Eddie, please.” He swallows thickly. “Please, please Eddie,” he groans, tilting his head back and trying desperately to grip onto any rational thought. “Bedside drawer,” he manages to choke out, “i-if you… fuck. If you don’t wanna...” He chokes on a gasp, his cock twitching between them. Fuck it, he’s sure Eddie gets the point.

\--

Eddie _moans_ when Richie yanks at his hair. There’s a delicious shock of pain in his scalp that feels so good contrasting the waves of pleasure building within his abdomen. He wants to hear Richie making noises like this all the time. It might kill him to, but he would die more than happy.

And then Richie is telling him he’s been tested, practically begging him to come inside him, but offering him the option not to. It’s an odd dichotomy, to feel such softness for that level of easy consideration Richie always seems to have for him. How he always thinks about Eddie, no matter how far gone he is in his own head.

Eddie trails the hand petting Richie’s hair down and his fingers trace Richie’s cheek then his lips. Eddie has been tested as well, knows he’s got a clean bill of health. Not shocking, since he hasn’t had sex, but his mother’s influence never really went away. And Richie asked so sweetly, Eddie is loathe to say no. “Of course, baby, you’ve been so good.”

He spends a few more moments, just existing in this purgatory between moments. Looking down at Richie fondly. Then he pulls back, has to look around a bit to find the lube again, before pumping out a generous amount into his palm and slicking it over himself. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this painfully hard in his _life_ , he’s so ready for this. Once he’s made himself feel sufficiently frictionless, he uses what’s left on his hand to give a few strokes to Richie, neglected as he’s been, while he lines himself up. “Tell me if I fuck something up,” he mutters. It’s almost a joke, but he’s mostly actually concerned.

\--

Richie absolutely keens when Eddie praises him. Back arching as Eddie breathes out that he was good. It’s the most vulnerable Richie has ever really allowed himself to be in bed, letting Eddie see him like this is terrifying and exhilarating and he wants it to never fucking end. Wants to stay in the moment forever, just him and Eddie and the feeling of being pressed close to him. It’s hard to really think about anything else, in fact. Hard to focus on anything other than Eddie, on how it feels to be touched by him, how it feels to hear Eddie tell him he had done well and that he wants him.

Those fingers trail over his face, trace his lips, and Richie’s instinct is to open his mouth up. To wrap his lips around those fingers and suck on them like he’s sucking Eddie’s cock again. Whining low in his throat, desperate to make Eddie feel good. To please him. And it’s a little strange, to allow himself to follow that instinct. After all, he’s been actively repressing it every time he fell into a stranger’s bed. This is safe, though. Eddie loves him, Eddie is safe. Richie doesn’t need to worry about leaving himself vulnerable because Eddie would never hurt him. Not intentionally, at least.

He whines when Eddie pulls back and away from him. Despite not having his glasses on, he has a pretty good idea of what he’s doing now. He gasps at the feel of Eddie’s slick hand on his cock, and Richie throws his head back. “Please!” he repeats, sounding absolutely wrecked. He _feels_ absolutely wrecked, and Eddie isn’t even in him yet. “Please, Eds, I need you!” 

There’s a bit of a heaviness to that. Because despite the situation, despite how far gone Richie is on the arousal and how deep into his own head he is, there’s no denying that he means so much more than sex with that. He needs Eddie, and maybe that’s a lot and probably a little too close to codependent but it’s so undeniably true. 

\--

There’s something so intense in the moment before the plunge. Almost like time slows down, maybe even stops. And only Eddie and Richie are there. They’re the only things that _exist_ in that moment. Just them and their heavy breathing and the sound of Richie’s little noises, Eddie practically choking on air when Richie pulls his fingers into his mouth. His tongue is slick and wet and feels so sinful playing with his fingers like it’s his cock.

Then he pushes forward.

The world crashes in around him. Suddenly everything is too loud, buzzing in his ears. But it isn’t _actually_ loud. Aside from the constant font of noise from Richie, it’s quite quiet. Then Eddie realises that it’s the blood rushing through him, he can hear his blood. It sounds like being in an airplane. It’s overwhelming and he wishes it would go away because he wants to hear Richie better, wants to hear the way he keens and whines and begs for more.

It’s like music.

Eddie is slow as he pushes in. Much as he wants to charge ahead, like anything else in his life, he is entirely too terrified of hurting Richie. So he goes slow, centimeter by agonising centimeter, until he’s seated all the way within the love of his life and he just… stops. It’s too much. Too intense. Too emotional. Too _good_. He just stays there, frozen in place, still, waiting to see if the feeling will pass or if he’s going to have to just suffer in how incredible it is.

He leans forward, practically collapsing over Richie, trying not to shift his hips but wanting to kiss Richie. Although, he’s loathe to remove his fingers from his mouth, because that feels way too good. But he really wants to kiss him, so he does. He removes his fingers from Richie’s mouth and grips at his chin to hold him still while he kisses him.

“Fuck, Rich, fuck fuck fuck fuck.” He can’t come up with anything else to say. Words are hard and his brain is busy experiencing the incredible pleasure of having Richie so tight and hot around him.

\--

It’s easy to keep his lips wrapped around Eddie’s fingers. To suck on his fingers as if he were sucking his cock. Lips tight around them, going so far as to reach up and hold onto Eddie’s wrist to keep his hand there. Moaning around his fingers, licking and swallowing around them. For a second, he’s so focused on it that he almost forgets what’s about to happen. 

Until Eddie pulls his fingers away - and Richie whines at the loss, trying to grab his wrist more tightly to drag his hand back. But then Eddie is pressing into him, and Richie can’t breathe. He throws his head back, trying desperately to inhale. Fuck. Fuck, it’s so much more than just his fingers. It burns in the best way, and he reaches desperately to wrap his arms around Eddie’s neck. “Eddie!” he gasps out, thighs trembling harshly. His entire body clenching up around Eddie. 

It feels like forever, it feels like it’s an endless amount of time passes before Eddie is pressed entirely into him. Richie gasps, trying to take a real breath, trying desperately to inhale but he can’t. His chest is tight and his entire body is hot and it’s all too much in the best way possible. And the way Eddie is chanting into his ear is better. The way he moans, the sounds he makes. Richie could listen to it forever. He scratches at Eddie’s back, trying to pull him closer. His legs shift, curling around Eddie’s thighs to try to drag him even closer.

“Fuck, Eds, Eddie, please! Please, feels so good, fuck me, c’mon please, please I’ll be good,” he chokes out, high pitched and a little pathetic and this is so good. Everything his wet dreams were since he was fucking thirteen and it’s finally happening. Eddie buried in him, pressed so close that Richie could feel his breath, feel his heartbeat.

\--

It’s too much. Too much and not nearly enough. He still hasn’t done anything, hasn’t moved, is almost too scared. Like moving will break this perfect bubble they’re existing in at that moment. Because it is perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like some kind of dream that Eddie is going to wake up from any moment. Wake up and find himself married to Myra, or worse, in the sewers underneath Neibolt.

Eddie pulls back enough so he can look at Richie. Really look at him. He takes a moment to just memorise how fucking _beautiful_ he is. The little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the slope of his nose. The goddamn mystery that is the colour of his eyes. The bit of stubble growing in.

“Goddamn it, Rich, I love you so much.” He almost doesn’t recognise his own voice with how hoarse it sounds. He doesn’t even know why, doesn’t think he’s been making _that_ much noise. Maybe it’s just that all his energy is going toward holding himself still that he can’t make his voice work properly.

It doesn’t matter because it’s that moment that he finally draws his hips back, nearly as slowly as he sank into Richie, pulling himself almost all the way out. Then he rocks forward again. It’s a little faster, but not much. He builds his pace up, but keeps it slow, almost lazy. But it’s controlled because he’s pretty sure if he lets himself go he’s going to hurt Richie and probably kill himself.

\--

Richie is certain he’s never going to get used to the way it feels to hear Eddie say he loves him. It’s surreal, in a way. Like he doesn’t quite believe it, every time. And they have both said it quite a bit since Eddie had first told Myra he wanted a divorce. Richie says it every chance he gets, like he’s trying to make up for lost time. So scared every time will be his last and not wanting to risk Eddie not knowing, risk him not understanding just what he means to him. Richie loves this man so deeply, so intensely, and he never wants Eddie to doubt that. He never wants Eddie to even think maybe it isn’t true. 

But hearing it back that often? That’s jarring. Good, so good, but so hard to wrap his brain around because sometimes Richie feels like no one has ever loved him before. He knows that isn’t true. He knows the Losers all love each other. He’s aware, in the logical part of his brain, that his friends care about him. But his depression doesn’t like to listen to logic, and his logic had been painfully silent during those years without his memories. 

None of this is really processing in Richie’s mind, at the moment, of course. He’s far too overwhelmed by the feeling of Eddie’s cock buried in him. The burn of the stretch, the heat, the pressure in his belly. They way his own cock is twitching and leaking more than he actually realized it could from just precum. The solid, comforting weight of Eddie above him, the firm muscle under his hands. He clenches around Eddie, gasping for breath.

“I love you too,” he manages to get out, nails digging into Eddie’s back and his head tilting as he bares his throat to him. Pressing his hips up like he’s trying to take Eddie deeper. 

When Eddie slowly pulls out, Richie nearly sobs. 

When Eddie pushes back in, Richie _does_ sob. Holding too tightly at Eddie’s back, trying to drag him closer. Eyes closed but tears leaking from the corners anyway and if he’d had any presence of mind, Richie would be embarrassed by that. But it’s difficult to be embarrassed when he’s rambling incoherent nonsense that consists mostly of ‘please’ and Eddie’s name. 

\--

Eddie latches on when Richie turns his head, baring his throat. He kisses hard, nipping, sucking, trying to give Richie a collar of bruises to show off tomorrow. And briefly, Eddie remembers that they have a photoshoot for Richie’s promotion of his new special the following day and it’s going to take a lot of makeup to cover up the marks he plans on leaving. That thought fills him with an odd sort of pride.

The nails scraping down his back encourage Eddie to move a little faster, go a little harder. He grinds deep against Richie every time their hips meet. It’s so much. Eddie has never felt something so good, so incredible. And with _Richie_. This is some kind of dream. He knows he’s going to wake up, he has to, nothing can be this good.

There are tears tracking down along Richie’s face and Eddie, even knowing the tears are in pleasure, has a hard time seeing Richie crying. So he kisses up Richie’s cheek and kisses at the corner of his eye, trying to kiss away the tears. “Rich, you- fuck, you feel so good. You’re so good for me. So, so good.” He keeps saying it, over and over, knowing that it does something good for Richie, having seen how the praise makes him react.

\--

Somewhere in Richie’s head, too deep down to really think about right then, Richie realizes he has that photoshoot the next day. And fucking hell, the idea of the makeup artists needing to cover up hickeys is amazing. Makes his cock twitch and leak and Richie clenches up around Eddie. He’s been at photoshoots before, though never one as big as tomorrow’s, but he’s never really needed to have anything covered up. He has never had bruises or cuts or hickeys that the make up artists have needed to cover up. Will they mention the hickeys? Probably not, it would be unprofessional. But Richie has obviously never been too professional, so it’s always possible someone will mention the marks Eddie is leaving on his neck and collar.

But these thoughts are little more than vague ideas in the very back of his mind right now. He’s far too focused on how good it feels. On how Eddie’s cock stretches him out, the way it feels each time Eddie’s hips smack into him, jostling him on the bed. It’s better than any toy he has ever used, better than his own fingers. Eddie is warm and twitching inside him. And, fuck, the way his voice sounds. Raw and wrecked and gravelly in his ear. 

“Fuck, Eddie, please,” he chokes out, one hand tangling in Eddie’s hair to pull him closer, his other hand scratching at Eddie’s back. He shifts, tightening his legs where he has them curled around each of Eddie’s thighs to try and keep dragging him back in every time he drags back out of him. It’s a lot to handle, it’s so fucking much. It aches in the best way, makes his entire body clench up and tremble and he moans out loud.

“Please, please, Eds!” he gasps out, back arching as Eddie coos out praise into his ear. Telling him he’s doing well. Telling him how good he feels. Richie is _wrecked_ and all he can do is sob again as the tears continue to slip down his cheeks. “‘M good, wanna be good for you, Eds, please.” 

\--

Eddie is in some kind of life ending dream or something. There’s no way this is all _real_. It feels too good and it’s _Richie_. _His_ Richie. All his, for real, but he is finding that so hard to believe. How can his life have actually led to this? How can he be here, after everything, and actually have everything he’s ever wanted.

Richie is begging more and Eddie’s mind refocuses. It doesn’t matter how he got here, but he’s here now. He’s here in this moment, with Richie pulling him in and begging him and moaning and writhing. Richie’s so goddamn beautiful. He’s so pretty and Eddie is so fucking lucky to see him like this. Open and vulnerable. Something he’s pretty sure he’s never shown anyone before.

He’s wound tight again. With Richie clenching almost in rhythm with his thrusting, so tight and hot, Eddie feels like he might explode. It’s probably too soon to feel this close already, but Richie does things to him.

In the past, when he’s allowed himself to explore his own body, he’s always found it difficult to get hard, to get aroused, and sometimes he couldn’t even make himself come before he got bored and frustrated with himself. But with Richie… it’s so _easy_. So fast and easy to get wildly aroused. To wind up on the precipice of a _second_ orgasm of the night.

Fucking hell.

Eddie finds a spot right where Richie’s jaw meets his neck and sucks a pretty mark there. He can feel his rhythm start to get a little erratic and he wants to see how close Richie is. He practically presses his lips to his ear before whispering in a deep, fucked out voice, “Are you going to be good and come for me, baby?”

\--

There’s too much happening all at once. Every one of Richie’s senses is being overwhelmed by Eddie in the best way possible. Stretched and aching on his cock, listening to every breathy little noise he makes. Grabbing at him, _drowning_ in him, and loving every second of it. Richie isn’t sure he’s ever been this overwhelmed, this turned on. Fuck, the only time that comes close is the very first time he’d ever fingered himself and even that wasn’t anything like this. 

His head tilts back and to the side when he feels Eddie kissing under his jaw, letting out a frankly pathetic little whine. His skin is too sensitive, feeling those lips and teeth and heat too much but he wouldn’t want anything else. He wouldn’t want Eddie to pull away. He wants the marks on his skin, he wants to look in the mirror and remember how thoroughly he’d been wrecked by this man. He wants people to see him and know he had been fucked good and deep by the man he’s in love with.

And then Eddie speaks into his ear, deep and hoarse and Richie cries out. “Fuck, Daddy, I wanna be good!” he says before he can think about it. Fuck, he _can’t_ think about it. Falling so far away from everything that the only thing that matters is Eddie above him, the way he fucks him. Clenching up around Eddie, his cock twitching harshly and he lets out another sob. Fuck, fuck it’s so good, it’s too good. Eddie encouraging him, talking too sweet into his ear as he fucks into him deep and hard and it’s a lot to handle. It only takes a thrust or two more before Richie goes from whining and crying to completely silent. His entire body tensing and his back arching harshly as he comes untouched between them. 

His thighs tremble around Eddie as his orgasm rocks through him, clenching around Eddie’s cock and those tears are coming harder now. It takes a long moment for his body to start to relax again, and Richie gasps for breath. His arms just tighten around Eddie, though. His legs locking around Eddie’s thighs to keep dragging him in. “Fuck! Fuck, Eddie, come in me please come in me! I need it, fuck, wanna be fucking wrecked by you, I want you to _own_ me Eddie, please!” he breathes out, voice hoarse and quiet and it’s just the right side of painful to have Eddie still driving into him and he _loves_ it. 

\--

The words that come out of Richie’s mouth are _not_ what Eddie had expected. He’s not really sure what he had expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t _that_. And Eddie can’t even say he doesn’t like it. He really doesn’t have time right now to unpack all of what any of this means right now, but he can think about that later.

Because right now Richie is coming. Again. Without even having been touched. It is quite possibly- no, scratch that, _definitely_ the hottest thing Eddie has ever witnessed. Richie is quiet and tense and his whole body shakes with the force of it. Eddie just gently works him through it, continuing little shallow thrusts against Richie, impossibly tight as he has become.

It’s too much, Eddie knows it won’t take long before he follows behind. Especially when Richie recovers from his orgasm and _begs_ for him to. Pulling him in and holding him tight. Richie has to be in near pain, but he wants it. And so does Eddie. He wants it so _badly_. He wants to let go and claim Richie as his and be one with him in every way.

That thought does it. His next thrust ends in a stutter and he just stops. Frozen. Completely stuck deep within Richie. It wasn’t so long ago he had thought that coming down Richie’s throat would be the greatest orgasm of his life. He had been _wrong_. Somehow, this tops that. Emptying his soul into Richie while Richie desperately clings to him, sobbing from overstimulation. _This_ is the best orgasm of his life. He’s pretty sure nothing will top this. He’ll be impressed if anything does.

He comes down slowly, still mostly unmoving. As his mind clears from the fog of pleasure, he looks down at Richie with the biggest, dopiest grin he’s probably ever worn in his life. “Holy shit,” he says, breathless in the best way. “I fucking love you so much.”

\--

Richie can feel Eddie go impossibly hard inside of him, and he moans out loud when he feels him come. He gasps for breath, letting out these weak, pathetic little noises as Eddie comes inside him. Stupid as it may be, it makes him feel like he belongs to Eddie entirely. As if Eddie has claimed him. Dominated him in the most intimate way and Richie loves it. He knows, without a doubt, that this is the best sex he has ever had, and he’s almost afraid of seeing if Eddie will ever top it. 

Richie isn’t sure he’d _survive_ it if it gets even better than that.

He swallows thickly, shifting and gasping when he can feel Eddie’s release inside of him. He whines, reaching blindly for Eddie. Holding onto him perhaps too tightly, as if afraid of him leaving. He can’t breathe, left gasping for breath as he tries to remember how to fucking exist. His eyes slip shut, and despite how he still has some stray tears sliding down, he can feel a satisfied smile tugging across his lips. And it only grows when Eddie speaks.

“I love you, Eddie,” he says, after a long, _long_ few minutes of struggling to come back down. finally manages to get his hand on Eddie’s face, cupping his jaw. Thumb brushing over his cheek. “Fuck. Thank you.” He lets out a breathless huff of laughter and shakes his head. “I think I left this plane of existence for a few minutes.” He shifts again, just the right side of uncomfortable, and he offers another little smile. “...I can’t fucking believe this is real.”

\--

Eddie uses one hand to brush away the tears that still seem to be falling from Richie’s eyes. He would be concerned if he wasn’t completely sure that they were tears of pleasure and joy. His face hurts from how wide he’s smiling. His thoughts are all Richie. Richie Richie Richie Richie.

“God… me either. I’m still convinced I’m going to wake up from this elaborate dream.” He shifts slightly and winces at the uncomfortable oversensitivity that shoots through him from where they are still joined. He slowly and carefully pulls himself free, wincing more at the feeling of it and the messy slide of his soft dick out of Richie.

“Gross,” he mutters. Once separated, Eddie finally allows himself to collapse half onto the bed and half onto Richie, exhausted. “Fuck.” Such a versatile word, that. And it’s the only one that Eddie can really think of that even comes close to expressing how he feels. The torrent of _everything_ running through his head.

Eddie cuddles against Richie, trying to pull him as close as possible. “We absolutely have to disinfect everything, but… not now. Cuddles now.” He pauses, “Are you ok?”

\--

Richie lets out a pathetic little whimper when Eddie pulls out of him, his entire body tensing and twitching from the feel of it. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way, too much and so good. His head tilts back when he clenches up and he feels Eddie’s release drip out of him and whines. He grabs for Eddie, desperate, and curls into him as he tries to breathe properly. 

He lets out a breathless laugh at the question, and he tilts his head until he can kiss at whatever part of Eddie he can reach. That ends up being his collarbone. He presses his lips there firmly, letting out a sigh as a smile pulls over his face. “I’m so much better than okay, Eds,” he says, voice a little soft. 

Because ‘okay’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover how good Richie feels right then. He feels… loose and warm and so fucking happy he isn’t entirely convinced this is real. He’s lying in bed with the love of his life, they have just made love for the first time and he has a photoshoot for his first big special tomorrow. He had never thought he’d ever be this happy, that his life would ever be going this well. He almost wants to cry again. Instead, he just curls further into Eddie and lets out a contented little sigh. 

“How ‘bout you?” he asks after a moment. “How’re you feeling?” 

\--

Eddie grins. The feeling of Richie’s mouth just pressing firmly against his collarbone is like some kind of grounding force, keeping him present, helping convince him this _is_ real. He tightens his arms around Richie impossibly further.

“I can honestly say I have never felt better in my entire life. I’ve got you, and that’s all I need.” And he means every word of it. Even though he feels sticky and damp and messy, he has never felt better. He supposes the warmth he feels now, the joy, the safety, these are all things he should have felt on his wedding day. Instead, the day had been near clinical. He hardly remembers it.

This moment, though. He’ll never forget this. The way he feels, the way Richie looks, the warmth in his heart. Every detail of this moment will be in his mind until the day he dies, he just knows it. He hopes to have many more of these kind of special moments he will remember forever. These happy, perfect moments.

His eyes find Richie’s again, “Do you need anything? I can get some water. And you should probably put your glasses back on.” He trails off, turning to try to see over the side of the bed, trying to locate where the glasses had been discarded to. He begins to move off of Richie in order to turn over so he can find them for him.

\--

There’s something so ridiculously _soft_ about the way Eddie is suddenly doting on him. The soft touches and his quiet voice. All of it feels so fucking nice. Knowing Eddie cares that much about him, knows he has to be just as exhausted as Richie suddenly is, but is still so focused on making sure he’s okay. It kind of makes Richie’s eyes water again. He hides the sudden tears with a little huff of laughter and a shake of his head.

Then Eddie is turning and pulling away and Richie feels a surprising surge of panic. He grips tightly at him, refusing to let him pull away. “No,” he says, and he winces when he realizes he sounds as panicked as he feels. And that’s stupid, why would he be panicking? He knows Eddie isn’t going to _leave_. He knows damn well all Eddie’s doing is reaching to find his glasses for him so there’s no need to feel so panicked. But… well. He really doesn’t want Eddie to leave his side. He just needs to be pressed as close to Eddie as possible, be held by him until his breathing evens out and his heart rate relaxes.

“Don’t need them,” he adds, tugging almost childishly at him to make him come back. “Please, just… lay back down with me.” His voice cracks slightly as he says it and what the _fuck_ is that? He feels… kind of embarrassed by how fucking emotional he’s getting. It’s just sex, after all. Sure, it had been with the love of his life, but there’s no need to get choked up over it, to be _afraid_ of Eddie getting up and leaving him there.

\--

Eddie’s heart nearly breaks at the sudden panic in Richie’s voice. He immediately comes back to him. His first priority is and always will be Richie. He curls himself around Richie once more, pulls him close, kissing the side of his head. “Shhh, I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand runs gently over Richie’s arm then over his chest before running back down his arm. “I’m never going anywhere,” he whispers, almost without realising. His heart is full with the love he feels for this man. He slings one leg over Richie’s and curls even more around him.

“You sure you’re ok?” Eddie plants several little kisses on Richie, wherever he can reach. “I love you so much. I never knew it was possible to be this goddamn _happy_.” The hand he’s been trailing over Richie’s arm and chest reaches a little further down until he can twine his fingers with Richie’s. He pulls their hands together up to his mouth so he can kiss Richie’s knuckles.

\--

Richie lets out a soft sigh when Eddie returns to his side, curling into him. His eyes slip shut, and he burrows himself into Eddie. Holding on too tightly, pressing flush against him like it’s going to be his last chance to do so. He can’t explain it, doesn’t know what the hell is making him need Eddie to keep holding him like this. Sure, he knows he likes cuddling and he always enjoys being close to Eddie, but there’s no reason for that soul shaking _panic_ he had just felt. 

He supposes it doesn’t matter too much, though, since Eddie is tangling their legs and wrapping around him so easily. Kissing him and speaking softly to him and Richie offers another shaky sigh of relief. “I love you, Eds,” he breathes out, shifting and rearranging until he can press his lips to Eddie’s. Soft and slow and so fucking perfect. Everything he’s been dreaming of for three fucking decades, even if he didn’t know it for most of it. He cups Eddie’s face, hand slipping up into his hair to hold him close.

And he knows they’ll need to get up, soon. They’re sweaty and covered in his cum. And he still feels Eddie’s release slowly dripping out of him, slicking up his thighs and that feels really fucking good, even if it is fucking gross. The sheets will have to be changed, Eddie will probably want to immediately throw the blankets into the washer. But for right now, Richie is perfectly content to press against him. Lay in bed for at least the next few minutes and hold Eddie like he’s wanted to since he was a child. Richie lingers there for a long moment, kissing Eddie sweetly. Then, a bright, shit-eating grin tugs at his lips. 

“For what it’s worth,” he starts, “you’re a better lay than your mom.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/playingchello).


End file.
